Stop touching me

Sometimes I am sooooo jealous of people in cars. Of their sweet sweet isolation.

The bus to my neighborhood (the 48), I would argue, has slightly more than usual of ... inappropriately behaving ... people on it. However, transit in general.

I was on my way home from massage therapy today, which was not as painful as usual and actually quite lovely. I was feeling all dreamy and relaxed. Then the bus shows up. The one that will take me practically to my door step. Huzzah! Excellent bus karma! But then I had to pay for it.

On the way in, this drunk (you could smell it; he was slurring) guy is all like, "How are you ma'am?" He did say ma'am, but I don't acknowledge the questions / comments of male strangers on the street / transit unless they are trying to get my attention for a good reason (i. e. "Hey, you dropped your wallet"). My husband thinks this is quasi-rude, but I would like him to try being female for awhile and then reassess.

Anyway, I ignore this guy. Then he sort of reaches out and goes PATPATPATPAT on my upper arm and repeats his question. I'm like internally {e e p} but externally I brandish the cheeriness. "Great!!!!! How are you?!?!" while speeding toward the back of the bus.

And eventually I got a seat and eventually he reached his stop and I was wearing a thick coat and it wasn't a super-unacceptable place to be touched AND it wasn't nearly as bad as the drunk guy who embraced me because he wanted to "spread the love." But my ptsd kicked in and I felt my insides roilingroilingroiling. And then I felt this one muscle (the worst one) in my back start to tighten and I thought "nooooooooooo...." because : nice expensive massage appointment.

Now I am home. I am very grateful for our also nice also expensive home security system where I can press buttons and then it will give an ear-ringing beep if someone is trying to break into my personal space. The end.