Who does that?

Due to that don't-know-how-to-drive thing, I spend a lot of time on public transportation. With all kinds of people. The vast majority are normal people just trying to get from Point A to Point B. Then there are the Other People. The clip their nails on the metro kind. (Seen three times.) The pick their nose on the bus kind. (Seen so many times.) The stare at you so long you get off a stop early to get away from them kind. (Happened once.) And now I can add the give you back your hair kind.

This morning, on the bus from the metro to my office, I had a seat to myself, earbuds in, staring out the window. There was a 20ish woman behind me eating an apple--which is such a gross thing to do on the bus--and then a 20ish man in a suit sat beside her. About two blocks from my stop, I hear him start to talk to her. Now, it's a well-known rule that you don't talk to strangers on the bus, so naturally I had to listen to see what was going on. This is how the conversation went:

Man: I think this is yours.
Woman: What?
Man: Here, I think this is yours.
Woman: That hair? That's not mine.
My Inner Monologue: No way, he did not just try to give her back a piece of her hair! What!?
Woman: That's longer and darker than mine. I think it's hers.
Man: Ok.
MIM: What in the hell is happening?!

Then the man reaches his hand around to the seat beside me and DROPS A PIECE OF HAIR ON IT. Without saying anything. I glance up in shock/disdain as he sits back and the woman laughs a little. (I was too angry at this point to determine if it was a "don't upset the crazy man" laugh or a genuine "hilarious, he gave her back her hair" laugh.)

So yes, I lost a piece of hair on the bus this morning and the man behind me felt the need to return it, not exactly to me, but to the seat beside me. Who does that? I wasn't flipping it around. I didn't yank a piece out and throw it at him. I didn't stand over him brushing it. If you ride public transportation you're going to have to get used to seeing way worse things than a lone strand of hair.

Filled with such incredulity that I couldn't breathe or speak, I practically ran from the bus as anger consumed me. But was I over-reacting? Considering what I've written about my hair in the past, the fact that I'm ok losing a strand here and there says a lot. Me gathering loose strands, would be crazy. A man returning a strand to me, also crazy! It's just a hair! (Verdict: Not over-reacting.)

After telling the story to my male coworker, he posited the theory that the man was trying to find a reason to talk to either of the women near him. "But giving back a piece of hair?!" I asked/yelled. "Yes, men will try anything to talk to women," he said. Then my head exploded and I decided to remain single for the rest of my life.

But first I tweeted it, because I wasn't done expelling my rage. And I'm glad I did because my brother tweeted a reply back that instantly calmed me and put everything in perspective:

well atleast he didnt smell it and put it in a envelope.

I can't argue with that, baby brother. I can, however, ensure that the next time I walk on that bus I do so shaking my head and flinging bits of hair about like I'm in a mosh pit.

I did walk 500 miles and I did walk 500 more

Friday morning I stepped out of my apartment building and in to a crisp fall morning. Glancing briefly down at my Rainbow sandals, I thought about backtracking to change into some warmer shoes. But since Rainbow weather is quickly coming to an end, I kept moving forward. Not five seconds later -- whop -- my flip flop strap broke.

These shoes are five years old, perfectly broken in and perfectly molded to my foot. Now, because they are so worn, the tread is gone and the shoe itself is so smooth my foot doesn't always stay in it whilst I walk.

I shouldn't be surprised that the portion of the strap that started fraying three summers ago should finally give out. Though I am surprised that it broke just outside of my apartment building and not somewhere along my commute, like on the metro escalator or four blocks into my eight block walk to the metro or four blocks into my eight block walk to the office.

They were good shoes. They've been with me since the summer of junior year, purchased to carry me across Europe. Which they did, from England to Germany to Austria to Spain to France to Italy...

...back to Chapel Hill, including graduation...

...and to everywhere I've been since.

On hot days, on cool days, in rain, in sand, in the Red Clay Mud Incident of '06, they were there. Au revoir brown rainbows, skinny strap, it has been a good run. (Well, technically, a good, long, walk.)

Italian for happiness

After giving it a lot of thought tonite--about 45 minutes so far--I've decided that I want a Vespa. Bad.

But really, I thought about it long before tonite. It probably first got into my head about the time I saw this lovely lady ride one:

Then when I went to Italy and saw them everywhere in every color, I thought, "One day, one shall be mine."

Also while in Italy, I crossed off the first step: own Vespa gear. (Because if I learned anything from the "Friends" episode where Joey pretends to own a Porsche, I know that the name-brand gear is the first step.)

Yes, I'm still a bit hazy on the exact license requirements. Yes, while I did find people online who ride them in and around D.C., I'm not sure how it works on the roads out of the city. (Like to Alexandria, where I work.) And, oh yeah, there's that whole I don't drive thing. Minor detail. Especially since thinking about learning to drive this scares me way less than thinking about learning to drive a car.

I want to be this girl! With a slightly higher neckline. And a better driving form.

Did I mention how cute they are? And how many colors they come in?

I want one. Bad.

Photos: Vespa, mine, mine, mine, Vespa, Vespaholic, and Vespa.