My Memory of Buses

Tour buses, charter buses and school buses are a common sight each day as I work on the campus of MOSI (Tampa's Museum of Science & Industry). I was driving in after lunch today and I saw a lot full of school buses and I began reminiscing about my mixed feelings toward the big yellow machines.

I took a bus to school most everyday from middle school through my Junior year in high school. Each day when the time would come to get on the bus after school I would begin a ritual of panic. You probably already know that I am not exactly a detail person and I am much more likely to remember landmarks than street names. So everyday after school I would relive the same nightmare. The first few weeks each year were hell. I would look for anything to
identify "my" bus from the others.  A dent, scratch, graffiti, shape of
runners, bumpers -- anything to set it apart from the dozens of clones
except for that damn number. Numbers taunt me. Was it 3375? 1428? 530? Or worse...if there was a 5885 and a 8558...oh the anxiety. Seriously, the only time I would feel okay was seeing the driver and recognizing her (it was always a her in my case). Cursed were the social butterflies of the busing world.

The funny thing to me is that once I was on "my" bus I was usually comfortable (except for those darn middle school years, but I was never comfortable then) the whole ride home. I would look out the window and daydream. It was wonderful alone time. I remember savoring it even in the moment. Others were anxious to get a ride with friends or get there own car or ANYTHING that would keep them off the dreaded bus. I was happy for a time when no one noticed me and I could daydream without interuption.

Well, as usual you didn't really ask, but there you go. My memory of buses.