I know, I know. Everybody runs to the bus at some point, you say. Not me. Never me. I never run. Period.
It's awkward. Arms flailing, flapping, everything bouncing--jiggling--as you sprint. I laugh at people who run in public, especially across campus. They always have that eager, anxious wildness gleaming in their eyes, their faces contorting with desperate determination. And they always hunch over, as if it makes them faster, propels them forward.
Really, I wish I could take pictures of people running. I'd make a wall of it. Some art project that would get national attention, perhaps end public running forever. But that's beside the point.
It was sunny and wonderful--literally, the most perfect day. I wanted to linger in the brightness, merely meander my way home. But I also wanted a cookie, one of the Peanut Butter Blossoms I had made. And I imagined them dwindling, being snatched away with each moment wasted. My subconscious was screaming that if I missed this bus, if I had to wait another twenty minutes for the next one, that I wouldn't get one. I wouldn't get one. And so I ran.
I wish I could say something crazy happened--a punch line. Like I was so intent on making the bus that it wasn't till later, when I reached Las Vegas, that I realized I was not the wrong bus. Nope, it was the right bus; I knew it was the right bus the moment I started running, racing across the Square and over the bridge, leaping down the stairs and reaching the bus breathless. I ran to the bus, and that's the funny part.
I, Shelby Boyer, ran--in public, past actual, living people---to catch a bus. Nothing funnier than that.
Except maybe this:
Did you know that
under extreme stress,
some octopi are known to eat their own arms?