I missed my bus today. Just now, in fact. Oh, I'm right here. The bus was right there.
But there was this lady in the park-n-ride lot. She had a big leather purse, a messenger bag and several bulging department store bags in tow.
I was jogging toward the steps that lead from the lot to the busway. She was standing, cape billowing, next to the SUV that had dropped her off.
Leaning toward the open passenger window, her back to me, she was loudly sharing some amusing story. Sensing someone coming up behind her, she cut short her conversation, fired off a fast farewell, and staked her claim to the sidewalk.
She planted her patent leather boots smack in the middle of the walkway. There was no way around her. She moved ahead slowly, cape flapping, bags swaying ever so slightly. Mincing steps at a leisurely pace -- who moves like that at rush hour?
Up the narrow concrete steps we went. No chance to move ahead. Was my bus there? Probably. Could I do anything about it? Short of tackling her linebacker-style, probably not.
Near the top of the stairs I saw it humming in the cold morning air. Please don't let it be mine, I thought. Through the cloud of exhaust fumes the red-orange lights flashed -- P3.
"My bus!" I shouted. Cape lady halted. She was blocking me! But -- no! She shifted her parcels and leaned aside, flattened against the concrete barrier.
"Wait!" she called.
"Hold the bus!" I bellowed. Head down, heart pumping, I ran for it.
It pulled away as I crested the stairway.
My mind focused with fury on coming so close and missing it. There's little so stark in the landscape of the mind than losing out on something by a cool few seconds.
Why me? "Why does this always happen to me?" I wondered. It feels sometimes like there's the equivalent of a cosmic "kick me" sign on my back. I'd spend the morning making up for lost time.
And then the "if onlys" started.
If only I'd driven through that yellow light by the school. But there are kids all over the place at that time of the morning, and you never know what kids will do.
If only I'd gone into a flat-out run past Cape Lady at the bottom of the stairs.
I wanted to burst. Short of that, though, I figured I'd settle for invective.
I yanked off my glove and opened my iPhone. In seconds I'd opened the Notes app and began venting my frustration. There's something about being in the moment. The immediacy of my iPhone is a wonder.
As I tapped away, I settled in. Sorting out my thoughts onto the small yellow lined pad was strangely rewarding. I'd made several decisions that whittled away the morning and ate into my commute time. I thought of all the reasons I cut it so close, especially the ones before I got to the park-n-ride.
If only daughter No. 1 hadn't slept through her alarm and needed a ride to school. But she was probably coming down with something. It's only the second time this year she'd overslept and the 15-minute walk in 24-degree weather wouldn't greatly benefit her anyway.
If only I'd gotten daughter No. 2 out the door at first try. She'd forgotten her mittens, then her library book. When she went back the third time I followed to see what else she'd left behind. I found her fussing over our 18-year-old terrier. "I forgot to hug Toby," she said.
Important stuff, when you really think about it. And I was thinking about it.
If I'd done things differently, I could have been earlier. But I really liked my choices. The jam-packed morning had some wonderful moments: a quick chat with my eldest; a hug for our old dog. (Well, I couldn't let my daughter hug him alone.)
Standing in the cold for a quarter of an hour, iPhone in hand, my temper cooled.
Lost time? Only if I chose to characterize it so. On inspection, there's little I'd change. All in all, my hectic life was going pretty well. In just a few minutes I'd slowed enough to stop and realize that stolen moments often masquerade as lost time.
First Published: March 4, 2011, 10:00 a.m.
