You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?

If you follow my blog closely (Mom), you may have noticed that I've been on hiatus for a few months. Well, folks, I simply lost my touch. I was uninspired. I couldn't think of anything funny to say (which is shocking because I'm the type of person who finds something as hapless as birds running to be funny). The magic was gone.

Everything I considered blogging about the last few months just sounded like whiny tripe. I fear that I'm turning into a cynical, judgmental, old woman (perhaps I was already there and never noticed). I have shaken my head, decrying "kids these day" so many times, I've nearly worn out the mechanism that allows my head to shake in the first place; it's like the "Guide" button on my Dish Network remote (you know what I'm talking about).

For instance, this morning, I got all fired up because I saw a FOURTH set of butt cheeks exposed on my short walk across campus. That's right: I have seen FOUR sets of butt cheeks in approximately 10 days. I'm not even OUTSIDE on campus that much, and that's nearly one butt cheek every day, which might be more than I see my own butt cheeks. No, Grandma, I was not being mooned like that time you and Grandpa stopped at a rest stop during a road trip and there was some wacky man bathing outdoors (is that the way the story goes?). These are young women whose shorts were SO short that I could see nearly two inches of butt cheek over that fold that distinguishes the leg from the butt. I recently learned that this is called "neathage." And no, these were not girls out at bars on the weekends. It was not Halloween. These were not volleyball players coming back from practice in their spandex short-shorts. These were young women walking to CLASS, in the middle of a WEEK, during the DAY time. Heavy, heavy, heavy sigh. Garrumph.

This is the kind of stuff I'm talking about: these are the rants that I nearly post on my blog every few days. How about the girl with a custom, monogrammed car cover for her VW Bug in the sophomore parking lot? Or the girls on the shuttle who didn't know what an urgent care was? And don't EVEN get me STARTED on black stretchy pants with cowboy boots! When did black spandex tights become acceptable to wear with any sort of top, not just workout tops? And you know what cowboy boots say to me, girls? They say FFA. They say 4H. They say farmer. My dad owns cowboy boots like the one's you're wearing. I've checked, and not many of you come from rural areas where the primary industry is agriculture.

Which leads me to ask: Is it happening? Is this how I know it's happening? Am I turning into a crotchety old lady? Is this it? Is this when the tides turn? Is there an elixir or a training or a self-help book to keep this from happening? I don't want to be judgmental. I know these girls are nice, intelligent, well-meaning girls, and I know that people have probably seen my butt cheeks on a few occasions (feel free to call me out in the comments; I know it's happened) and that I've made some questionable fad fashion choices (Hellooooo, do you remember gauchos pants?). Bottom line: I need help.

So until I have something nice to say, I guess I'll say nothing at all. I'm purposefully on the lookout for the good in humanity, which I guess is the second step of my 12-step program for CA - Cynics' Anonymous. But let's not skip step one: 

Hi, my name is Emily, and I'm a cynic.

Peace, love, and those stupid cowboy boots (that I'll probably own in two months, anyway, and eat my words)--

Emily  

The Man, the Myth, the Legend

This is not the first time you've seen his name: Ron, the shuttle driver. He brightens up my morning, the shuttle ride isn't the same without him, and he is a top contender for my favorite person in Winston.

About a month ago, an opportunity presented itself to tell Ron my name. My sister had come to visit, she had ridden the shuttle a few times with me (an absolute MUST, if you're going to visit me), and after she left he asked me to remind him what my sister's name was. I think he and I both knew that this was his secret ploy to learn my name, and I was just fine with that. "Erin. So we're Erin and Emily, and people get our 'E' names confused all the time." I was so IN after that! The new morning greeting is now, "Well good mornin' Miss Emily!" And last week, as I departed the shuttle to start my school day, he said, "Don't let 'em getcha down today, Miss Emily!" And my world is now complete.

Honestly, I feel as though Ron could be one of my Buehler uncles. He used to drive semi-truck (he hauled diesel fuel), and he's from the sticks (which really sounds more like "the steeks" in Ron the shuttle driver speak). His backwoods North Carolina accent is so strong, he said, that he always makes his wife call to order food because he's afraid people won't be able to understand him. Speaking of his wife, Ron once said that when he first met his wife, he knew that he had to marry her because she was "cuter than a sack of puppies." Oh Ron...

What else do I know about my dear friend, Ron, you ask?

• His wife is an occupational therapist, and she is as messy as I am
• Ron has self-proclaimed OCD and has been quoted as saying that he "might as well follow his wife around with a broom and dustpan"
• He has two sons - one a year older than me, one a year younger
• He knows when there are law students riding the shuttle (because I'm pretty sure he knows where all the regular riders get off and has asked us about our programs and life plans), and he'll let them off at an unscheduled stop in front of the law building so they don't have to make a long, uphill walk (which he often accompanies with a "The boss man's not in yet, I can let you off here")
• When Erin was visiting, she noticed that when Ron pulls up to the shuttle stop, he stops the bus right in front of me and not at the bus stop where all the other not-regular-riders wait.
• He and his wife are getting new carpet this week (why do I know these things?)
• He LOVES Pepsi and peanut butter/cheese crackers
• He has asked about Erin nearly EVERY DAY since she visited. One day, he asked about what she wants to do for a living, and after my response, he said, "She comes from good stock; she'll be fine." Oh Ron...

I think there's a moral to this story (because this is not just about stalking Ron, although I DID stalk him on Google images, the Wake Forest website, AND the faculty/staff directory to find a picture of him. Please note: he really doesn't look the same without his signature WF hat.). The moral of this story is that there are fantastic people inhabiting every corner of your life; they might be friends and family (and these people should be rather obvious to you), but they also might be your shuttle driver (not so obvious). People like Ron could fill a background role in my life: I could simply say the requisite "hello" and "thanks, have a good day" when I ride the shuttle and not take our conversations any further. Instead, my mornings and afternoons are brightened by a bald man from the backwoods, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I hope I brighten his day, too (because we all know how annoying it would be to sit quietly, overhearing the conversations between the freshman girls who are going to Whole Foods, the mall, tanning, and then dinner and just "CAN'T BELIEVE that ugly guy from the baseball team friended me on Facebook." Sigh. So glad I'm saving Ron from that for the 14 minutes per day that I'm on there).

Peace, love, and unlikely friendships--

Emily