Ornery

Sometimes things just get to me. It's frustrating how we as a (metropolitan and cosmopolitan species) array ourselves with so much technology (camera-mp3-radio mobile phones), planners and organizers which end up becoming the very source of our upsets. Well, mine anyway.

The headset of my Nokia 6230 is already giving me all sorts of problems. It's at a point when I actually have to hold the wire and the phone a certain way for me to hear anything through it. Combine this with my complulsive need to get as much value out of my stuff (in this case use the phone's fm radio as I commute) that I put myself through so much discomfort.

I take public transport, and I've done so since forever. A significant part of my life has been spent on buses, jeepneys, taxicabs and even tricycles. It often takes me four rides to get to my office (all of the above) and to me, it's very uncomfortable and inconvenient

Public transportation compromises my personal space. I get crowded and I have so little room to move, take out my wallet, the book I want to read, a jacket or umbrella, respond to a text message, or take a call. It is my indulgent and decadent desire to be chauffeured. When I become a person of some means this is one conceit that I will unashamedly allow myself.

Let me walk you through one of my least-favorite moments of my life: interacting with the conductor ng bus (the bus personnel that acts as cashier). You give your bill/banknote and he tells you he'll get back to you because he doesn't have ready change.

Now here I am, my wallet out of my bag and I desperately want to put it back in so I can go back to my reading (which would mean I have to take out my book which I put back in so I can interact with the conductor), or go back to sleep. So he writhes his way away from me through the packed bus and I'm debating with myself: will I put my wallet in or wait for him to conclude our transaction? Bear in mind that I am really crowded by the other passengers the whole time this is happening.

After an intolerable time has passed, he gets back to me and asks for my tickets - which, by now, I've tucked in somewhere it won't clutter my immediate space. Fidget, nudge, fidget, nudge - I produce his damned tickets which he then promptly tears in the middle without completely tearing it apart (a secret ritual among conductors that's still a mystery to me). Then he gives me a coagulated clump of my torn bus tickets, assorted ratty bills, and coins of various sizes.

I promise you this is enough stress to ruin my day. And I do this almost every day. So sometimes, I do get ornery.