A couple of months ago during the nighttime commute, I looked up from my book. I had taken the bus almost daily for several months since moving to D.C., but I hadn’t ever stopped to look—really look—at the faces of the people around me, dozens of professionals sitting and standing their way up Massachusetts Avenue. What I took in was troubling.
There were vacant stares, there were pouting lips, there was active frowning. Painful! Awful! The expressions were more troubled than Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. More apathetic than smokin’ Jay Cutler. More tortured than the Dust Bowl lady who was on one cover of The Grapes of Wrath.
In short, this is a serious—and I mean SERIOUS—condition. I call it bus face.
I get that people are stressed out and exhausted and whatever else, but there’s no animation in ’em. Where is the life, people? The couple…
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