Please Report Any Unattended Bags Or Suspicious Behavior To The Bus Driver

DISCLAIMER: If you are easily offended or disgusted, do not continue reading.

DISCLAIMER #2: Given the nature of this blog entry, I will not be including any pictures. You will understand why momentarily. And you will thank me.

When work ideas are fresh in my mind, I like to continue brainstorming on my hour-long bus ride home. I rarely get much accomplished, but it’s a nice way to pass the time and it makes me appear intelligent and ambitious.

Neither of which I am.

People peek over my shoulder and read on as I scribble words like paroxysmal nocturnal hemoglobinuria, chronic hemolysis, and complement inhibitor.

They must be so impressed.

A few weeks ago, however, my scribbling was a little less clinical. A little less intelligent. A little less…socially acceptable.

But before I continue, here’s some background information.

I write for a healthcare advertising agency, and I was recently assigned the task of coming up with a name for our IBS campaign. For those of you who are unfamiliar with IBS, it stands for Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Tens of thousands of Americans suffer from it, but many people are embarrassed to talk about it. So we set out to create a campaign that would facilitate a countrywide discussion surrounding IBS and its symptoms. We wanted to make talking about digestive health a little less taboo.

And so I boarded the 64, sat down, and got to work.

The bus filled up—awkward body parts invading my personal space—but nothing could break my concentration now.

Before I knew it, I had filled an entire page with names, including:

            Project Defecation Declaration

            Shout, Shout Let It All Out           

            The Feces Species

            Poop: It’s what we do.

And my favorite, my pride and joy, my baby…

            The Bowel Movement

How obvious. How appropriate. How inappropriate. How gross. How perfect.

I was in a groove. “How do you like me now, writer’s block?!” I thought to myself as words flowed like…water…onto the paper in front of me.

I was circling the ones I liked, crossing out the ones I didn’t like, giggling as I went. 

I had just reached the bottom of the page when the monotone, automated bus voice announced, “Please report any unattended bags or suspicious behavior to the bus driver.”

It was at this time that I remembered the over-the-shoulder peekers. The people who stand above me and read along as I write. 

The people who had once admired my 100 page medical manuscripts. The people who had once thought of me as ambitious and intelligent. 

The people who were now burning holes in the back of my head with their judgmental stares.

I lifted my head and glanced upward only to be met by a number of disgusted faces.

Oh dear God. I slid down into my seat; my chin pressed to my chest—my face now a lovely shade of red.

Would I be reported for circling, asterisking, and underlining The Bowel Movement? Would I be kicked off the bus for giggling as I wrote The Feces Species? Would I be forced to sit at the front of the bus with my hands where everyone could see them?

My over-the-shoulder peekers continued shooting me disapproving looks.

How could I possibly explain the "list of words that rhyme with poop" down the right side of the page? How could I explain the countless catchy poop slogans and the sketches that accompanied them? What kind of sicko did I look like?

I folded the paper, slid it into my purse, and stared out the window for the remainder of the bus ride.

Lesson learned.