I don’t know how I used to do this.
I’m currently on a Greyhound from Las Vegas to California, seven months pregnant, and my back is screaming. These bus rides are only about five hours, and there was a time when I’d climb on, put my headphones in, fall asleep, and wake up when we got there.
Today? Absolutely not.
Every position hurts. Sitting hurts. Leaning hurts. Existing hurts. Pregnancy has officially made me the most high-maintenance passenger on this bus.
And then there are… the people.
The woman traveling with her baby? She wasn’t the problem. In fact, I felt bad for her because everyone kept complaining every time the baby cried. The poor little one cried for maybe 30 minutes before completely knocking out for the rest of the trip. Babies cry. That’s literally part of being a baby. The adults complaining were honestly more annoying.
Then there’s the group of men talking at the complete opposite end of the bus somehow loud enough for everyone in the front to hear every single word. I don’t know how that’s even possible, but congratulations on your impressive lung capacity.
And let’s not forget the guy who fell asleep while playing the same TikTok over and over. If I hear that audio one more time, I may lose what’s left of my sanity.
Of course, my anxiety also decided to make an appearance. Usually I travel with my suitcase that’s covered in a million stickers, making it easy to spot. This time I brought a plain black duffel bag because all I’m carrying is dirty laundry. My mom’s washing machine is broken, so I’m taking my clothes to my friend’s house to wash them. Not the point of the trip but a key role in the story.
There is absolutely nothing valuable in the bag.
Literally just dirty clothes.
Yet somehow I’ve convinced myself someone is going to steal it.
To make the trip even longer, we ended up delayed leaving Las Vegas because there was a truck on fire near the highway. Definitely not something you expect to see before starting a five-hour bus ride.
Then came my favorite part.
I pulled out my snacks because, newsflash, I’m seven months pregnant. I cannot go hours without eating something. Apparently the woman sitting across from me felt the need to comment on how often I was snacking.
Ma’am…
I’m growing an entire human.
My doctor would probably be more concerned if I wasn’t eating every couple of hours.
I promise my Goldfish crackers and granola bar aren’t affecting your trip.
At this point, all I want is to get to California, do my laundry, stretch my back, and never see the inside of a Greyhound again.
At least until I inevitably book another trip back home to Vegas. Let’s hope by then I completely forget how miserable this trip was.
