Go Down, Miss Moses

Late last winter I joined the ranks of the downtown workforce - Lilliputian ranks, practically Spartan, very mixed in metaphors, but as proud and determined as we are sparse.  And this little small-town mouse found herself needing, for the first time in her life, to negotiate a city commute. 

For whatever reason - mostly, I think, because humans are basically inherently helpful as long as you’re not talking politics (and as long as you bear with you all the markers of race and class privilege, ugh) - I have almost always found someone to point me in a useful direction, in this case my job predecessor who trained me for the first two weeks of my employment before taking her well-deserved retirement.  I voiced my apprehension about making the drive from the suburbs to the downtown (sure, Detroit isn’t THAT big, but it’s much bigger than anywhere I’ve lived before and it’s also, you know, Detroit) and she recommended taking the bus.

So, armed with her various tips and a newly purchased bus pass and jotted notes from calling the bus line’s customer service number to find the best stop, I embarked on my first use of public transportation that didn’t involve visiting Jess in Chicago and being steered patiently everywhere by the elbow.  All my type A/Virgo/anxiety-driven control traits rose up like an army to bolster me through it; I’m sure I presented quite a picture, slightly wild-eyed, on edge, staring down every detail to assess its effect on my plan.  (“Relaxing under new circumstances” does not hang in the wardrobe of my stronger suits.)  Fortunately a kindly commuter named Walter took me under his wing, talked to me the whole way down the bus line, and showed me the best stop, and I alighted without incident a reasonable walk from my new office building.

In general I love taking the bus.  I don’t love the length of the ride, but driving wouldn’t save me much time, and this way I can write or read or scroll through the increasingly insane news feed on Facebook or just stare out the window at the endlessly fascinating layout of metro Detroit.  My employer pays for my monthly bus pass and I park in a free lot, so I conserve enormous amounts of money that otherwise would have to foot the bills for gas and parking and wear and tear on my car.  Occasionally you get the odd creeper, but I’ve perfected my “don’t fuck with me” face (which takes resting bitchface and stirs in a healthy dose of potential aggression) and have crafted a really quite effective “get the fuck out of my face” speech, so I rarely experience harassment. 

The biggest drawback to taking the bus in winter is the unbelievable cold.  It’s the kind of cold that seeps into the marrow of your bones and leaches out your body heat from the inside.  It eviscerates.  There’s no brisk walk, no quick scurry between heated car and heated building, to mitigate the horrific chill.  You stand still, you stand exposed, and you stand for sometimes quite a long time, when the buses run late or fail to show altogether.  I had thought of my winter coat as heavy, but I learned last year that it’s actually made of tissue paper.  And holy shit was that walk from the bus stop to my building miserable. 

But once again a kindly semi-stranger gave me some pointers.  (I must go through life with these huge eyes that say I’M LOST PLEASE HELP ME.)  “Get a down coat next winter,” she said.  “And get a long one.  Fuck fashion.”

So on her advice I did indeed fuck fashion and before the snow flew (that one time, since the fever that is killing our planet has resulted in a parsimony of snowfall) purchased a down coat that falls to mid-calf.  With a hood trimmed in faux fur.  It isn’t stylish at all and I can pull it off only because I am formidably tall and long things make me look majestic (or so I tell myself), but oh my glorious fuck, is it warm. I cheerfully withstood negative temperatures feeling (and looking) like I was wrapped in a freshly toasted marshmallow.  Also the hood is warm like a hug around your face and I can dispense entirely with the notion of a winter hat, which is awesome, because I hate hats (mostly because they squish my hair but also because I look stupid in them).

So here’s to my down coat, and its beautiful way of adapting to the temperature around me so that I am never too hot or too cold, but always, Baby Bear-style, just right.