It's a Wonderful Life…

…isn't it…?

Bus Rage Part 2: A Case Study April 8, 2012

Further to my post entitled “Bus Rage Part1: A Profile of the Syndrome” I shall now continue with the second installment: putting the profile into perspective by means of a case study. Case study subject was, invariably, lucky. old. me.

Two nights ago I left work at 5.40 pm knowing I was likely to have already missed the closest bus to my actual finish time so I wasn’t in any great hurry – until I turned the corner of the street and saw my bus coming down the high street – running really isn’t my thing (those of you that haven’t read “My Boyfriend Thinks I’m Fat” please do so now) and yet the thought of being stood waiting for the next bus for an indefinite length of time forced me to commence an attempt at a run. I watched the bus stop as I ran (slow mo) down the high street towards it and I then watched as it closed its doors and started to drive off. But no, I’d already run this far I was NOT going to miss it, and then, hurrah; the traffic lights at the end of the road turned red as the bus pulled up to them so I continued my panting – flailing run (I definitely was not a gazelle in a past life) right up to where the bus had stopped at the traffic lights and knocked on the bus door (no need: the driver had clearly already seen me)…unfortunately this was not the end of my plight as, when he looked at me the bus driver merely shook his head and refused to let me on his bus.

So there I stood; gasping for breath in the freezing night air fit to collapse from the running, and there he sat in his nice warm bus for several minutes while he waited for the traffic lights to change. As I walked back up the street to the bus stop I must have seemed like I had developed Tourettes Syndrome; cursing and swearing to myself as I was. I then had the pleasure of waiting over twenty minutes in the cold for the next bus, at risk of losing a hand because I left my gloves in my locker at work. Excellent.

The following night I was determined not to get caught out again and so left work five minutes earlier than on the previous night: no need for running that way I’d be in perfect time for their perfectly made up time table. And yet once more as I turned the corner I found myself lurching and flailing towards the bus stop. Thankfully there were a lot of passengers getting on at that stop that evening so he only just got the doors closed as I got there. He reopened the doors for me and took my ticket then looked at me and said “that was lucky”. This was the same bus driver that had refused me getting onto the bus the previous night. And I was still M.A.D. really mad. My response verged on the hysterical and there were definitely symptoms of bus rage apparent “LUCKY?! LUCKY?!” definitely tending towards the hysterical, does this man have a death wish, I mean, REALLY! Lucky indeed, privileged in fact to have obtained the service for which I pay considerable sums of money each week. My response? “Oh yes, very lucky…Not like last night though” accompanied by a not subtle at all “death stare” which earned me the explanation of: “Well I could have lost my job for letting you on” I believe I snatched my ticket and snarled at him while stomping my feet as the red mist came down. Lost your job? Listen, losing your job is the least of your worries given the slow a painful death I had planned for you, I can assure you!

Bus rage is not simply limited to buses though, dear readers, it is also transferrable to every other method of transport but most especially the dreaded Public Transport.

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My Boyfriend Thinks I’m Fat February 5, 2012

I should eat more healthily, I should exercise; he’ll even buy me running shoes. Shocking, right? I’m kidding really, I mean, he does want to buy me running shoes but he doesn’t think I’m fat… just lazy. If he really thought I was fat I would consider that he had some sort of sub group of body dysmorphic disorder as I am a size 6. See he’s very fit and very much into dressing up in lycra and staring at another man’s lycra clad behind. Yes, he somehow manages to cycle something ridiculous like 60-100 odd miles every Sunday (the hero). Therefore me proclaiming my job to be very physical and spending my spare time hibernating under my duvet sounds an awful lot to him like lazy.

Irrespective of his views I had determined this would be the year I got fit. So I’ve looked at all the fitness options: cycling=perilous to my life, dancing=perilous to anyone around me, tennis=perilous to my bank balance and decided that perhaps I should start with a little bit of light jogging. So light, in fact, that the first jog I did was no further than to the end of my road and back again, well I had a nose bleed. Since my first jog I’ve invested in a few essentials in a bid to try and extend my staying power, most notably: a couple of sports bras. Ah, the sports bra, quite the creation. There’s a reason women are so keen to invest in these beauties. They are just so flattering. Oh um, actually I mean flattening. And really, what’s with the whole 1 set of clasps yank it over your head design?! I tried one on to check it fitted okay then found it a real struggle to get it off.  There was so much wriggling and struggling to get out of the blasted thing that I had to have a little rest on my bed. I very nearly ended up living out my days in a very attractive sports bra – well not quite in, more rolled up under my armpits unable to hoist it up any higher. I text the boyfriend to tell him about it and told him it was clearly created by a man. His response?

“You can’t be serious that you think men invented bras. What man would want to cover up boobies?!”