Ah, Monday morning. It always comes too soon. Begrudgingly I forced myself out of bed, showered, dressed, and, a cup of coffee down my throat, made it out the the bus stop where I stood in the oppressive humidity wondering why I bothered to fix my hair today when the thick Southern air was just going to undo all my efforts within five minutes outside. Soon enough the bus arrived and I found an open seat in the back, near a mom with three adorable toddlers. I sat there, wondering what the sugar rush would look like when the three toddlers’ sugar rush hit them, delivered by the bottles of root beer each was clutching. I wondered why anyone would give toddlers root beer at 8 a.m. I wondered why anyone would give a toddler a root beer at all, but what do I know about parenting?
Anyway, the bus rolled along, and, sitting in the back, I heard little but the roar of the engine and the occasional DING! signalling to the driver that someone had requested a stop. Until I suddenly heard something else.
OF COURSE I CAN’T HEAR YOU, I’M ON THE F***ING BUS!
This was shouted by a man with a ponytail, wearing a baseball cap, a neon green earbud protruding from his left ear, a cell phone held up to his right. He was wearing jorts. Of course he was. One of my favorite bus ladies glared at him. I gave the back of his head my best dirty look. Didn’t he know there were root beer-drinking toddlers on this bus? Won’t someone please think of the children?