Left Behind...well, almost Do you recall, as an elementary or junior high school student, being warned by your mother, “If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to miss the bus!” You despised those threats, those nags, but nonetheless, you benefited from them. If you actually heeded the warning, you probably made the bus, and though you were annoyed with your mother, somewhere deep inside you were thankful for her threatening words to “put a fire under it.” Usually when it snows, I receive similar warnings from my boss. (Let me remind you here, I’m 24 years old). I will be just getting out of the shower, very aware that the buses will be leaving early, when I receive a call, interrupting my actual getting ready, to tell me that “The buses will be leaving early this morning because of the snow.” Usually, in fact, I receive multiple calls of this type, because one person doesn’t communicate with another and I get warned 2 or even 3 times, each time making me stop doing my hair or eating breakfast or any other activity I’m in the midst of in order to actually get out the door on time. So, needless to say, these calls annoy me. I think, “I can see the snow outside. The buses always leave early when it snows.” Well, this morning, as I was throwing on my 8 layers, with about 5 minutes left before the buses normally leave, I opened my curtain and noticed a light dusting of snow on the rooftop beside me. “Hmmm,” thought I. “It’s not bad, though, and nobody called, so I guess the buses will leave at the normal time.” I proceeded to dry my hair…la la la…but when I turned the hair dryer off, I heard the sounds of engines running outside…and pulling away… “That can’t be the buses,” I pondered, slightly worried. “I still have five minutes.” But, just to be safe, I glanced outside anyway. Yep. You guessed it. It was the buses. I grabbed my computer, an instant cup of soup and a yogurt (lunch) and was out the door in about 15 seconds. But not before my bus pulled away. So, yes, I went chasing after it. Unfortunately the driver didn’t realize I was engaging in this activity until my boss, 4-foot tall 70ish-year old head honcho, directing traffic, saw me streaking across the driveway and into the street. With one wave of his powerful, fuzzy leather-clad hand, the bus halted and he ushered me, like a little kindergartener, onto the bus (now stopped, sideways, in the middle of the street). Everyone was bowing profusely and apologetic and trying to make it all better by making as much of a fuss as possible. They tried. But they couldn’t erase the memories replaying in my mind of similar situations back in fifth grade. Unfortunately, back then I didn’t have any 4-foot man with powerful fuzzy leather-clad hands to come to my aid…