Remember when you were a little kid, and you were waiting for a parent to pick you up from some event, like a skating party or something, and your parent was really late, and you sat and watched your friends (with responsible parents) leave one by one, until finally it was just you and a (slightly annoyed) chaperone (“Are you sure you told them 8:00, dear?”), and you convinced yourself that your folks had either died or decided they were tired of you and run off to Jamaica with the rest of your siblings?

If so, you know how I felt tonight, as I sat at Montlake and waited and waited (and waited) for the 48 to show. I waited almost 30 minutes for a bus that (theoretically, at least) comes every 15. While I waited, I watched several buses pass, including a couple of 43s (not unusual: the 43 is one of those buses you always see too many of–unless, that is, you are waiting for one), a 540, two 271s, several coaches headed to East Base, and the Snuffleupagus of routes, the 25, before my bus finally arrived.

Truth be told, I feel that “last one left at the skating party” sense of panic and abandonment every time the bus I am waiting for is more than five minutes late. I pace. I check the schedule. I pace some more. I squint to see farther down the street. I check the schedule again. Then, I see large headlights in the distance, and my heart soars. It’s coming…here it comes…nope! A Brinks truck. Ryerson. A school bus. Yet another 36. I consider calling Metro. Maybe there was a crazed gunman. Or an explosion. Or an 87-car pile-up.

And then, finally, it arrives, packed full of all the people who were waiting at the stops before mine. I am relieved. I am elated. I am indignant. It’s all I can do not to storm up the steps, poke my lip out and demand of the driver, “Where have you been?”