Treehouse: Nobody on the bus knew he had a wedgie and that's exactly the point
Nobody tells you about the small indignities of public transportation.
Like getting on the 7:15 a.m. bus with a wedgie.
It happened this morning. I was running late—overslept because my roommate decided 2 a.m. was the perfect time to reorganize the kitchen—so I threw on yesterday's jeans, grabbed my backpack, and sprinted three blocks to catch the bus. Made it just as the doors were closing. Victory, right? Except the second I stepped on, I felt it. That unmistakable shift. The fabric bunching in all the wrong places.
And here's the thing: in a car, you fix it. You're alone. You adjust, you move on, nobody knows. But on a packed city bus at 7:15 in the morning? You're just... stuck. Standing there in the aisle, one hand gripping the overhead rail, backpack digging into your shoulders, and you can't do anything about it. You just have to endure.
I tried the subtle shift. You know the one—where you kind of adjust your weight from one leg to the other, hoping gravity will do its thing. Didn't work. Tried the casual stretch, like I was just loosening up my back. Nothing. Meanwhile, I'm surrounded by people who have no idea what I'm going through. The lady on her phone, still arguing in Spanish. The guy with the briefcase scrolling through emails. The kid across from me with his headphones so loud I can hear the bass from here.
They're all just... existing. Living their lives. And I'm standing here in silent agony, trying not to think about the fact that I've got a full day ahead of me—class, then a six-hour shift at the warehouse, then another class at night—and this is how it's starting.
Back home, I would've just gotten in the car. Fixed it before I even pulled out of the driveway. Adjusted the seat, the mirrors, the AC. Everything on my terms. But out here? You're at the mercy of the schedule, the crowd, the stops, the delays. You're just one person in a sea of people dealing with their own stuff, and nobody knows—or cares—that you're uncomfortable.
And maybe that's the point.
Because as much as I wanted to get off at the next stop, duck into a bathroom, and fix the situation, I didn't. I just stood there. Rode it out. Got to campus, finally adjusted in the bathroom by the library, and went about my day. And you know what? Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. I was invisible in my discomfort, just like everyone else is invisible in theirs.
The bus doesn't care if you're having a bad morning. It doesn't care if your jeans don't fit right, if you didn't get enough sleep, if you're stressed about money or school or the argument you had with your roommate. It just keeps moving. Stops, starts, picks people up, drops them off. And you're either on it or you're not.
I could bring the car out here. I really could. And some mornings—mornings like this—I think about it. I think about the freedom, the privacy, the ability to just... be alone with my thoughts and my wedgies and whatever else life throws at me. But then I think about sitting in traffic for an hour, paying for parking, stressing about someone dinging the door in a packed lot.
And I realize the bus, for all its inconveniences, has taught me something I didn't expect: how to just deal with it. How to be uncomfortable and keep going anyway. How to be part of the crowd, even when you feel like you're the only one struggling.
Because everyone on that bus is dealing with something. Maybe not a wedgie. Maybe something bigger, something smaller. But we're all just trying to get where we need to go.
Even if it's not always comfortable.
\-Still getting used to it