6:15 — that’s when my bus was supposed to leave D.C.’s DuPont Circle en route to New York. Yet, here it was, 6:15, and I was hurriedly scampering up what must have been the longest Metro escalator in the entire District, thinking it was already too late.
I should back up. I decided a while back that I wouldn’t be heading home for Fall Break. As I explained to my mother, I’ve always been a mover. To spend four days at home in suburbia watching TV would be far more stress-inducing than relaxing. I am a person plagued with a perpetual case of cabin fever. So, I started plotting.
A good friend of mine from high school goes to art school in the Big Apple, and she had no trouble persuading me to visit her for the weekend. I secured a ride to the nearest Metro station and bought tickets for the aptly-named “BestBus” headed for New York.
Fast-forward, then, to Friday. I was dropped off at a swanky new Silver Line Metro stop in northern Virginia and was waiting impatiently for the train to roll in and shuttle me to D.C., where I would catch a bus up to the big city.
When the train finally arrived, I boarded — and immediately knew I was going to be late. For while the Metro’s newest line may be oh-so-posh, efficient it is not. The Metro car consistently came to screeching halts in between stops. A 90-minute, panic-stricken Metro ride which should really have been just shy of an hour ensued.
With whatever WiFi I could find on said train, I nervously Googled, “What happens when you miss your bus,” and found that should I be late, my ticket would be sold, I would get no refund and I would have to pay full-price for the next available bus. In other words, I’d be S.O.L.
With my backpack double-strapped and duffel bag criss-crossed over my shoulders, I anxiously pushed through the opening doors at the DuPont Circle stop. Time? 6:15.
I must have looked like a wild-eyed wanderer making my way up that unimaginably long escalator, but I bolted up nevertheless. I told myself to keep calm, that this stressful frenzy is part of being an adult.
And then an overwhelmingly daunting realization set upon me: this is real life. Sure, I’m headed to New York purely for kicks, but this whole making-plans-and-almost-ruining-them-accidentally thing, this whole all-the-consequences-fall-on-my-own-back deal — that’s real life. And it’s a little scary.
I had been proud of the fact that I had executed my own quasi-exotic break plans. I had seen my tickets to New York as a representation of the fact that my life was no one’s but my own, and that I could do with it whatever I wished. To see those plans come crumbling down and to see those once-glistening paper tickets become utterly useless seemed to indicate that my “independence” was nothing but an imagined ideal.
6:17. DuPont Circle. Across the way, I swear I see a white travel bus parked on the side of the street.
6:18. I’m running and giving off all signs of instability — arms flailing, tiredly whisper-screaming “Wait!” as I cross the car-filled street.
I reach the doors of the bus just as they’re closing. I force myself onto the inside steps of the bus, ticket in hand. “Bus to New York?” The driver nods — bless you, good sir, bless you — and I snag the last seat on the bus.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of myself for pulling a straight-out-of-Hollywood act, stopping traffic so I could go my merry way northward. All the worry of the past three minutes about “being an adult” and “proving my independence” suddenly seemed much more melodramatic than it had in the heat of the moment.
As lame as it seems, my bus tickets symbolized more to me than my ride to New York. They were a one-way trip to independence. As I struggled to uphold the glistening, worry-free ideal of independence I had constructed, I realized experiencing freedom might entail a considerable amount of failure and imperfection.
Mary’s column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at m.long@cavalierdaily.com
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