. . . or, surviving in the herd.
Mass transit.
I love it, and I hate it.
I love it because it cuts my commuting gasoline costs in half. I hate it because I am not a herd animal. I do not like being in the pack.
I don’t know the bus driver, except he or she shows up at the wheel, and is the Corgi of our herd.
Yesterday, there were only two of us
The bus stopped. I swear it tilted to the right as five nearly identical women boarded.
The smallest of the lot was a full axe-handle across the beam, and (charitably) somewhat north of 19 stone. That is rather robust for someone no more than 13 hands high at the withers.
Sitting in the aisle row, I was battered by handbags, backpacks and anatomical parts that I care not to mention in polite company.
I survived.
Until the woman taking the seat in front of me launched herself - and I say launched, because even a modicum of grace was not evident - into the window seat (and about half of the aisle seat, truth be told.)
Do you know how far the seat back on a modern bus can be displaced backwards when sufficient force is applied?
I do.
My kneecap does.
I am not trying to be unkind. I could stand to lose 20 pounds myself. However, regardless of bulk - or lack of it - folks need to be aware of those around them. It's not a ME world.
