On the Bus

Three years ago, I fell in love. I can honestly say it was most definitely not love now. It was only a hardcore crush on a guy I didn’t even consider my type.

He sat next to me during our art history class in college. He and I never talked much, besides him occasionally sharing my textbook I lugged to class every day. Even though our communication was next to nothing, I became enamored quickly. I looked him up on Facebook and learned he was a fan of Lana Del Rey and hockey. Off the internet, all I gathered was he didn’t have friends in class as well. So when the time came to go on a field trip to The Met, a trip our own professor said we might want “buddies” for, I thought it was the perfect opportunity to hang out. I asked him the day before if he wanted to, and he replied with a less than enthusiastic sure.

The next morning, we filed onto the coach bus bringing us to our destination. When we arrived, he wandered off and I stayed put. Anxious, I took to repeating we're hanging out, it’s fine, it’s cool in an effort to calm myself. Except it wouldn’t be fine or cool. I saw him standing beside a beautiful brunette, who I didn't recognize. By both their actions, I knew this day I spent twenty-four hours fantasizing about was doomed to fall through.

It did. He spent the day with her, just the two of them. And myself? I spent the hours meandering around that huge museum, alone. Of course, the majority of the reason I asked him was to get to know him, but the other part was just to not feel so lonely. Saying this painting/statue/mosaic is awesome! to no one gets real old, real fast.

I saw this girl neither before nor after that day. I have no clue what her name even was. On the whole ride back home he talked with her. And laughed with her. I was tired, hungry, and now nauseated having to witness such a sight. Listening to sorrowful songs on my iPod (such as Lana Del Rey. Yes, he may have been the source for my eventual love of her music) and staring longingly out the window culminated in me having a thought: I will never be the prettiest girl on the bus.

Three years ago, it made sense. A girl like her, with those model looks and endless charm (I'm assuming) would always be the prettiest girl on some metaphorical bus, ready to steal your man. Or not-your-man. Whichever. I can truthfully admit now it was a ridiculous thought. She might have been the prettiest girl on the bus, to him. I simply wasn’t, to him.

For some reason, this boy and I are still "friends" on Facebook. Except my crush on him and the bitterness I felt all is long gone. It took this, and this especially, to finally realize that not every person you’re oh-so-infatuated with will return your affections; that not every guy you desire will think you’re the prettiest girl on some bus, or anywhere for that matter.

I’ve found myself in this predicament since, and even though there’s no way around the sting it serves, you move on. Because it’ll be alright. As corny as it sounds (and I hate corny) someone, at some point, will come along who will see you as just what you’ve been wishing for. And it won’t only be while you two are on some bus. It’ll be when you’re walking off it, too.