This post is dedicated to anyone who has ever lost a piece of their soul to the Toronto Transit Commission, York Region Transit or dating.
The dating world for a single 25 year old girl these days is a pretty scary place. It seems like every where you turn there are drama queens, cheaters and serial killers. Coincidently, these are exactly the kind of people who ride the TTC #36 at 6:45 in the morning. Wait, maybe I should put that in a more charitable way. At 6:45 in the morning, public transit swallows up the human soul and spits out a social ogre on to the little red seat. Come to think of it, I don’t know how that’s charitable to anyone…except maybe ogres.
This has been my first week back at work after my 7 week hiatus of foot recuperation, and never before in my life did the similarities between 21 century dating and my commutes on the Animal Express hit me so hard as it did this morning.
After my first two bus transfers, I waited to take my third and final bus to work, the York Region Transit. Quick Note: Did you know that in a shamefully non-scientific study that was done this year, the YRT was found to be the single leading cause of murderous rage and/or high-risk suicidal behavior? People who steal your stapler at the office and stupid girls who try to pick up change at the check-out counter with curly 17 inch nails that have kittens and palm trees drawn on them tied in for second place.
This morning the YRT was doing what it does best, standing everyone up when they needed it the most. There was an assortment of society’s finest who were bracing the long wait with me. Among them were the confused deaf guy, the young intern guy, the curly haired office worker girl and my personal favorite, the Indian girl talking really loud on the phone with her mother in a really thick Indian accent.
It was somewhere between the deaf guy running around convinced that everyone was keeping top secret bus information from him and the Indian girl talking loud enough for every man, woman, child and stray cow in India to hear her that I realised I have been in every
dating public transit situation there was to be. And since my bus wasn’t going to be there for at least another hour, I mapped out my whole dating journey into a blog post.
My dating journey began some years ago with:
Short Turn Steve.
Short Turn Steve was a streetcar who appeared sooner than I expected him to.
What’s right with Short Turn Steve?: He was open, accomodating and had no funky odors. I wondered at my luck in snagging this one.
What’s wrong with Short Turn Steve: Steve shortturned after 5 stops, unable to take me any further. Then he turned around and went back to where we started.
Moral of the Story: Ditch you best friend, Over Analyzation and get off the Island of Why-the-hell-is-he-not-calling-me after 5 wonderful dates. If there is any lesson you can learn from Streetcar Steve, its that there’s probably too much construction ahead for this to go anywhere.
Trampy Train Trevor
If you have done the locomotion that is the Toronto subway train, you will understand my relationship with Trampy Train Trevor.
What was right with Trevor?: He was always available, generally showed up on time and took me where I wanted to go.
What was wrong with Trevor?: If you stayed with this guy long enough, you’d realise that you were just going around in circles. Not to mention, Trevor would stop at EVERY station…EVERY five minutes…and let EVERYone have a go with him.
Moral of the story: Charming cassanovas like Trevor might take you to see the night lights of a beautiful metropolitan city but could care less about bringing you home safe if you stay late. In the end, he’s screws you over…just like he screws EVERYone else.
Stand you up Sven:
What’s right with Sven?: Sven was the out of towner whose bandwagon I got on because a large portion of my life is spent at work out of town. Plus, he’s foreign.
What was wrong with Sven?: He had no concept of how to deal with a fast-paced city girl like me and only seemed to show up when he felt like it. He was super nice, super comfortable to be with and super unreliable. Also, what kind of a name is Sven anyway?
Moral of the Story: There’s nothing worse than having to wait for two hours in the cold winter for Silly Sven to show up, right? It could only get better from here, right? Wrong.
Bus of Bullshit Bobby:
Bullshit Bobby was the miserable shuttle bus that replaced Sven.
What was right with Bullshit Bobby: Nothing. He just happened to be there when I was cold, tired and desperate.
What was wrong with Bullshit Bobby: Everything. He had too much baggage, too many people and no space for me. I was pushed around, forced to deal with everyone else`s drama and the ride was so bumpy that this whole journey started to literally become a pain in the ass. Eventually, Bobby broke down with all the weight and the drama and I decided to just walk home.
Moral of the Story: In the end, I learnt that the one mode of transportation that didn’t fail me when I needed it the most were my own two feet.
I’d like to say the journey ends here but something tells me that come tomorrow morning, this shit cycle will begin all over again. And it won’t end until I save up enough money to buy a car and get over my nervousness of driving. Sure, a car is a commitment and maintence and is emtionally and financially demanding. But so is
dating taking the bus. The only difference is, if you treat a car right, they will always bring you home. No matter which hole in the wall you are stuck at.
So here’s hoping that one day, some day…us singletons will have a car all to ourselves. And when that happens nothing and no one, (except traffic) will make us wait out in the cold anymore.