I really try hard to be a nice person. I’m that person that will grab your kid’s hat and return it to you when they’ve tossed it out of the stroller. I’m that person that will tell you to go ahead of me in the checkout line because I see you’re only getting toilet paper and I have, like, 100 things. I’m that person that will see you trying on a red dress in the store and tell you, unprompted, that you look nice.
I’m constantly thinking about how to be nice. How to look like I’m nice. How to sound like I’m nice. Do they think I’m nice? I try so hard, that some days I actually believe that I am nice. Not just nice, but super nice. It’s gotten worse since having kids; something about being a role model. Even if I am sanctimonious and self aware of my perceived niceness, possibly it will rub off on my kids and they will just absorb my niceties as second nature, without even having to think about it. That would be nice. I would maybe even get the credit for having kids that are nice.
Last week I was being exceptionally nice. I looked nice, I felt nice, the weather was nice, I smelled nice. I smiled at strangers. I smelled a lilac tree, then texted friends a nice reminder to do the same. I held doors for everyone. I gushed gratitude when people held doors for me. I even said hello to cute dogs as I walked past. I was nice, and everyone saw that I was nice, and everyone was nice in return.
The baby and I spent the day out of the house, strolling through nice boutiques, picking up nice market veggies, and sipping a very nice iced coffee in my reusable coffee cup (because sustainability is also nice). It was a day that seemed to be drenched and dripping with nice.
With my market bags over my shoulder and the stroller gliding in front of me, I decided to hop on the bus, to get home early to prep dinner, which would be nice for my family. We boarded the bus; I paid my fair and thanked the driver for helping me with the stroller, so nice. We took our seat in the mobility device area, where I could park the buggy. There were about 5 other people in close proximity. I engaged when a woman initiated small talk about the nice weather and about my nice newborn baby. Two stops in and an older man got onto the bus. I moved the stroller so we could share the space more comfortably, as you do when you are nice. He thanked me, as he was also nice in return. Our journey began.
The older man, now beside me, cleared his throat. Behind his throat noise I heard a little extra noise – a toot. He had tried to hide it, but I caught it. I also caught a little smell of it, which confirmed it to be true. Okay – time to be nice, I know how to be nice. Everyone toots. He’s human. Treat this situation nicely by simply letting the moment pass. He then toots again, this time without a fake cough to hide it. A few people hear it and look at him. This is an opportunity to be super nice. For people to see me being nice. I sit up straight and I smile at the nice day out the window, smile down at my nice baby – let the world see how nice you are by nicely treating this older man with the dignity he deserves in his moment of vulnerability, be an example of nice… but then the smell, now stronger, hits me. Hits me so hard my face feels funny and I gag – I try and fake a little cough to hide the gag sound. Gagging would not be nice.
Another fart passes, very audible. I know the smell is coming. Determined to still be nice I quickly grab my hand cream and put some on my hands, rubbing them in front of me, subtly allowing the cream’s rose scented fragrance to waft towards my nose. Sadly, it is useless, instead I get a deep inhale of flatulence mixed with an after aroma of dead roses.
Oh dear, this is not nice. Hide your reaction – retch – don’t over react to this smell –retch – don’t embarrass this man – retch – don’t embarrass yourself – retch. I full on gag, very audible. A teenager smirks. He wants me to not be nice, he wants to see my composure fail, he’s not being very nice. I am determined to overcome this challenge, to come out nice.
Another Fart.
Okay – fuck this shit – seriously, what the actual fuck is going on in there? Did you eat other people’s farts for lunch? Is your butthole actually just an overflowing diaper genie? Is this actually an intentional act of biological warfare, releasing your poison while laughing on the inside? You sir, are a colon criminal.
I, of course, say none of this. I fake a yawn, a lie that also allows me the false story line to rest my face in my hands, shielding my nose. A last ditch effort to leave this situation with an ounce of nice.
Nice try, dummy.
It’s all in vain. The old man releases one grand poof of a finale – a high pitched squeaker that manages to permeate between my fingers, settle into my hands and punch my nostrils with unimaginable force. I’ve been hit again, call for backup. I gag – but not exactly – this is different, this gag is guttural, deeper, angrier, committed, productive… I vomit. Puke rushes straight from my stomach to my mouth and into my cupped hands. Shocked I’m not sure what to do. I have a split second to recognize the fact that a stinky fart has just caused me to vomit on public transit. I duck my head into the stroller. I use the baby’s nursing blanket to wipe the puke from my hands, from my mouth, from my face. I ball it up and tuck it towards baby’s feet, he’s my only confidant in this dark moment; the only truly nice part of this story.
I ding the button to get off at the next stop. Defeated, I mumble a “have a nice day” to the people on the bus as we depart, now drenched and dripping in something not very nice at all. As we make our way home I think about how I wish I could have handled that situation a little nicer, how nice it would have been to have not barfed, how nice it is not to embarrass yourself and others. As I regained some poise I also laughed at myself a little and noted the karma; the humility blanket that smoldered my need for nice. I considered that usually, nice girls, especially self aware nice girls, really do finish last.
***
Featured Image: Ane, Cape Town by @ane_Strydom via @purienne_
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