I was sitting on the 38 Geary Blvd. bus in San Francisco heading downtown for some holiday shopping and like to at least pretend I’m not checking out the people on the bus with me.  I think it’s an unspoken rule called: “pretend everyone farted and don’t look”—no eye contact admitted. I like that rule since I can pretend I’m being incognito. Even though I am as obvious as a three year old, as long as no one catches me staring at them at that moment, I can claim adherence just as much as the next person.

I like the bus because it’s like a reenactment of weird news stories.  When I read those in the newspaper I can dismiss it too easily: “this stuff is all lies. Who would be that obvious/nuts/stupid?” On the bus it’s all real.

The people that scare me the most on the bus are those that hit the extremes on the social comfort scale. More often they are far, far too comfortable.  One afternoon a few years ago, on the same bus actually, I saw an older woman very meticulously lay down one sheet of tissue paper on the seat, presumably to protect her skirt from the seat germs. Then she dug around in her purse, pulled out a nail clipper and started clipping her nails as though she were in her private bathroom with a maid holding a trash can, leaping around to catch her flying objects.  The older woman would hold her hands out in front of her to check her work, then clip, clip, clip.  The nail shards and bits would fling out into the air while people would avert their eyes and pretend not to see.

Another example occurred on a Friday evening bus the week before Christmas. A woman got on holding one large department store bag and numerous smaller bags in each hand.  She made her way toward the middle of the bus and stopped in front of the back door.  Anyone who tried to get on or off inevitably tapped her bag and would get bellows of “I got PACKAGES!!” in their ear.  One girl in her early twenties was trying to move out of the way but couldn’t and said, “Where would you like me to go?”  The response was, “I don’t care! I got PACKAGES!”

While I’ve never in my life been comfortable enough to clip my nails or yell at strangers, I tend to think that’s a virtue when maybe it’s a sign of being too uptight. Even the thought of doing whatever I pleased feels a bit… refreshing, wild, nuts, a bit like a roller coaster.

On my last day in town I took the same bus to meet my sister for lunch and I saw a mother and little girl sitting across the aisle from me. The girl looked about four or five years old. She was next to the window and  kept sitting up straighter to  see as much as possible. As the bus went uphill slowly, it paused for a bit, then as it headed downhill the little girl raised up both arms and yelled, “Wheeeeeee!  Mommy, look! Wheeeee!”

When I was in my twenties, I spent most Tuesday nights watching Thirtysomething, a network drama that neatly compartmentalized life in the decade between youth and middle age:  the happily married couple with a baby; the other, less-happily married couple with older kids; the single, quirky sister; the commitment-phobic bachelor, etc.  That the show managed to create something entertaining out of these stereotypes was largely due to good dialogue, well-delivered, by a very attractive cast.  (I’m talking to you, Peter Horton.)  Despite the fact that my then-fiancé called it Whineaboutsomething and teased me about my devotion to it, I remained faithful through the last episode.

Recently, a serendipitous combination of found time, a traveling husband, and a cable outage led me to search for instant gratification on Netflix.  Sure enough, I found my old favorite.  I chose an episode that I remembered as particularly poignant and profound, poured myself a glass of wine, and prepared to be transported.

Instead, by the time the 47 minutes (no ads!) were over, I was more annoyed than transported.  I watched dispassionately as everyone paced hospital corridors waiting to hear about Nancy’s breast cancer prognosis; I endured shot after shot of our characters gazing pensively out windows into the frigid darkness while an irritatingly repetitive piano score telegraphed their concern.  Will the children be motherless?  Will the best friend die?  When Elliot broke down in a bathroom stall and pleaded with God to save his wife, I think I threw up in my mouth a little.  And when the curveball came (loveable, charming Gary dying in an accident on the way to the hospital-room celebration of Nancy’s clean bill of health), my chief regret was that Peter Horton’s devilish grin would not be making another appearance.

When I was younger, these characters represented my future.  Sure, it was a reductive and incredibly photogenic future, but probably not too dissimilar from the real Midwestern suburbia, mortgage, and kids that were down the line for me.  When I cried over the episode in which Hope learned of the death of an old boyfriend, I did so from a comfortable romantic distance, perhaps thinking that could happen to me some day, and when it did, perhaps my husband would be as understanding as the almost cloyingly sincere Michael.

But there is just not a lot of romantic distance in my forties.  I’ve watched a marriage or two disintegrate, a career or two flounder.  I have been to the funeral of a young mother killed suddenly, and of a teenager who died slowly.  Three weeks ago, one of my closest friends–who has never so much as put a cigarette to her lips–was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer.   Her treatments start next week.  There is no minor-key piano tune underscoring my worry.  If there is a sound track, it’s a noisy, angry scream I hear inside my skull from time to time.  It is possible that she gazes out windows when she is worried, but I doubt it.  Instead, she’s driving her kids to piano lessons and doing the laundry and going to the grocery store, just trying to keep her terror at bay. None of this would make very good TV.   I can’t fault Thirtysomething for trying, but now that it’s real life, I’m not sure I can watch any more.