I totally knew better, but…
The bus was two blocks away. It was right there, pulling up to the stop. And the next one was probably 15 minutes away. Had to get somewhere, I’m impatient, I can make it and…
Yep, I ran. An all-out sprint. OK, as close to an all-out sprint as I can muster at my age.
Made it. With a second or two to spare.
Whew! Was a little out of breath as I boarded the bus, but no worse for the wear. And then, the next day … woke up and my groin hurt. A lot. Something down there was pulled or tweaked or inflamed or some combination of these painful options. And then, my left knee started to hurt. A lot. Whenever I bent it, which you kinda have to do in order to walk.
And so, I now hereby solemnly swear: I will never, ever again run for a bus. Never!
No matter how close it is. Another bus will come. They always do, it’s how they work. Saving 15 minutes isn’t worth four to seven days of pain.
It seems I’ve reached the age where running for a bus can be hazardous to my health. It pains me to admit this, and to have to make this solemn pledge, but, as they say, Father Time is undefeated. And is kicking my butt. And groin.
So, three painful, limpy days later, I missed the bus home (barely) … and was waiting for the next one at the stop, which was on campus, on N. High Street, inches from the patio of a bar. It was late Friday afternoon, about 4:30, sort of a spring-like day, and thousands of Buckeyes were out kicking off their weekend of drinking. It was hard not to eavesdrop.
“Pledges are not people,” one guy said. He was there with another guy, a pledge in his frat, I presume. The two of them were chatting up a couple of girls. I think the goal was to impress the girls and get them to attend their upcoming frat party.
“We only have Mollies,” the pledge said.
I figured Mollies were drug slang, but for what? Hey, I already told you I was old. Turns out Mollies are MDMA, a synthetic drug that alters your mood and perception. You know, Ecstasy. Mollies are quite popular in night clubs. And, so it seems, frat parties.
And why did they only have Mollies at their frat party? What’s the alternative they didn’t have? Was tempted to tell the two girls to run, but was worried they might pull a hamstring.
The subject changed…
“Our landlord is suck a cuck,” the first frat guy said, trying a new tactic to impress the girls. “Do you know what a cuck is?”
I wasn’t sure. Is it short for cuckhold … a guy whose wife cheat’s on him?
Fortunately, Mr. Big Shot filled the girls and everyone waiting at the bus stop in on cucks: “His wife definitely cheats on him. I could have his wife.”
A little later, the two girls migrated over to a different part of the patio. Was totally relieved. I hope, I pray, they didn’t go to the frat party … and that the frat guy doesn’t “have” his landlord’s wife. Who does he think he is, college Donald Trump?
And so, there you have it: All the reasons I will never, ever again run for the bus.