For my whole adult life, I've avoided public transportation like the proverbial plague.

Don't get the wrong idea—I support the concept in principle. I'm a huge fan of less car traffic. I'm all in favor of reducing one's carbon footprint.

It's just that I detest crowded spaces. And complete strangers. And sharing crowded spaces with complete strangers.

I should have been driving myself to the first Oregon Symphony rehearsal of the season in the sweet solitude of my Honda Civic. Just me, some lit classical tunes, and the air conditioning cranked up to high.

But no. My mother's plans came first. What's new, right?

She'd flown out to Portland two weeks ago to visit the city I'd called home for the past year and spend some quality mother-son time together. Only to her, 'quality mother-son time' looks a lot like micromanaging my life. Which she's been doing since I was a little kid.

Except now I'm twenty-seven.

Same shit, different day.

This morning, she commandeered my car to make a Bed Bath & Beyond run. I tried to tell her I didn't need new dishes. Or extra bath towels. Or cutesy throw pillows for the futon in the living room. I reminded her that I did have a roommate, and even if he wasn't around that much, it was still his place, too. No matter. Once Sharon Lipsky sets her mind to something, it's a done deal. Protest is futile.

So no air-conditioned car for me. I was headed to work on that marvel of modern science and technology, the bus.

And not just any bus, mind you.

Of course it was the only bus in the city without a functioning cooling system on a blistering hot late-summer day.

And of course it was jam-packed with first-year students on their way to orientation at Portland State University. 

And of course it was now running significantly behind schedule, thanks to the whims of Portland General Electric. Such was the effect of lane closures for emergency utility work. Which meant that my bus, that demented mashup of a sauna and a sardine can, was attempting to merge into a solid line of vehicles—so far, without success.

I hesitated to check the time; if there's one thing I dislike more than overcrowded buses, it's an unexpected glitch in my routine. Getting off by even a few minutes can derail an entire day, and my sanity in the process. I'm the kind of guy who thrives on regularity, day in, day out. I don't do spontaneous.

On Kristen's advice—Kristen is my therapist—I'd stopped wearing a watch months ago. But I'm a millennial. I live in a good-sized city. It's the twenty-first century. Which means my smartphone isn't merely a device of convenience, it's an extra appendage.

An appendage with a clock.

Knowing full well I'd regret it, I fished my phone from the pocket of my cargo shorts. I took a fleeting glance at the upper right corner of the screen, trying half-heartedly not to see the time. 

And failing.

Ten thirty-seven.

Damn it all. Crap, crap, crap!

By my own on-the-fly calculations, I wouldn't arrive at the stop by Schnitzer Hall for another twenty-one minutes—and that was an absolute best-case scenario. No time to grab my iced vanilla latte. No time to warm up before the eleven o'clock rehearsal. Heck, I'd be lucky if I didn't miss most of Maestro Clark's annual 'welcome back' speech.

Thanks, Mom.

As I pondered the prospect of my day descending into complete chaos, I sensed the early signs of a panic attack: heart pounding in my throat, shallow breathing, beads of cold sweat forming on my forehead. So I channeled Kristen, recalling the coping strategies we'd discussed in our session a few days earlier. Deep, cleansing breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Focus on something pleasant.

Music.

On my music app, I cued up Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony, which we'd be playing in concert on opening night. There's this spot a couple of minutes into the slow movement where the violas double the first violins at the octave, building one of his famous soaring melodies into the movement's first fortissimo climax.

Eventually, the fear and helplessness that threatened to overtake me receded. I'd found that music held this magical power to rein in my anxiety and restore my sense of inner peace. I suppose, as a professional musician, I could have thought of it myself, but I've never been much of a problem solver. After all, that's one of the many reasons I'm seeing a therapist.

And at times like this, she's worth every cent I'm paying her.

As the bus slogged onward, I remained entranced by Late-Romantic orchestral awesomeness. I may not have reached my true happy place, but I was at least back in control—enough so that the throng boarding at 34th and Powell, turning TriMet Route 9 into a Tokyo subway car at rush hour, barely fazed me.

Thank you, Tchaikovsky. And thank you, Kristen.

I caught the eye of a mother wearing her infant in a wrap carrier in the rush of new passengers, so I stood up to offer them my seat. As I contorted my body, backpack, and viola case to occupy as little aisle space as possible, something hard and heavy smacked into the side of my head. I let out a yelp, more from surprise than pain; the unexpected blow didn't hurt for more than a few seconds, but it sure got my attention.

I spun around and found myself face-to-face with the perpetrator: a woman in a tie-hem tank top and denim shorts, with oversized retro sunglasses perched atop her head. Streaks of hot pink ran through her nearly black hair.

Maybe it was my newly lightened mood, or maybe it was the look of utter mortification on her otherwise lovely face, but I couldn't bring myself to be annoyed. I paused my music and popped out an earbud, offering her my most genial smile.

She held a hand over her mouth; her impossibly deep brown eyes were as wide as saucers. "Oh no, I'm so sorry!" It was hard to tell above all the bustle, but I thought I detected a subtle accent. "Are you okay?"

Cue my inner social coach. Eye contact, four or five seconds at a time. Match the way she looks at you.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you," I responded with a good-natured nod. "It's not a problem. We're good."

"Thank goodness! I'm so glad you're okay," the woman said with a sheepish smile. "I'm really, really sorry." As she continued, I spotted, slung over her shoulder, the very object that triggered our little interaction.

A cello case?

She was a fellow musician, and a string player at that! She had to be an incoming music student at PSU. Cello Girl took one of the last available seats at the rear of the bus; as she sat, our eyes met for a second, and I patted my viola case knowingly. I flashed her a thumbs-up, as though to say, 'string players unite!' Cello Girl chuckled as she returned my gesture, her eyes sparkling, her megawatt smile revealing a most beguiling pair of dimples.

With something so unique in common, you'd think I would have kept our exchange going. I might have nudged my way to the back, standing in the aisle next to Cello Girl as I introduced myself and struck up a conversation. Wasn't that what one did when one got beaned by an attractive woman wielding a cello case?

Most people, maybe, but not me. Not Randall Lipsky.

Instead, I turned my head away sharply as a queasiness wracked my stomach and heat shot through my cheeks, a heat definitely not brought on by the weather. My inner social coach reminded me how I was supposed to handle the situation: maintain eye contact, but don't stare. Keep smiling, natural, not forced. But I couldn't summon the fortitude to follow through, and I did what I'd done countless times before: I froze. I freaked out.

I blew it.

As the last few passengers from 34th and Powell settled into their spots standing in the aisle, I kept my gaze aimed at the floor. Why would I entertain the idea of approaching her, even for a minute? She couldn't have been a day over twenty. And with a face that easy on the eyes, she had to have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Or both. No, she was probably just being polite, smiling at the gangly, awkward guy with his unruly brown hair, his horn-rimmed glasses, his precious attempt to find common ground. She'd have friend-zoned me faster than you can say 'nice guys finish last.'

About two stops down the line, I finally allowed myself a glance toward the back of the crammed bus. As I'd expected, Cello Girl, with earbuds firmly in place and eyes riveted to the screen of her phone, had moved on to better things.

It's just as well. My brain tended to turn to pudding in the presence of any woman I found remotely good-looking. Sure, I was aware of grandiose concepts like true love (overrated), and soulmates (what even is that?), and happily ever after (yeah, right.) But pursuing those supposed ideals had brought me little but heartbreak, and I now thought them frivolous, even unnecessary. The structured life I'd made for myself worked; it was a place of stability in a world that too often confused and overwhelmed me.

And it had no room for the drama-filled roller coaster ride known as a romantic relationship.

As I was about to turn back to Tchaik Five for a pick-me-up, my phone vibrated, startling me enough that I nearly dropped it. On the caller ID, three letters that spelled out literally the last person I wanted to talk to right now. Swipe down, ignore.

Not ten seconds later, another call. From the same number. Swipe down, ignore. Why can't she text like everyone else?

Almost immediately, a third call. I suppose it was foolish of me to think she'd give up that easily. Swipe up, answer.

"Yes, Mom?"

"My goodness, Randall, why don't you ever answer your phone?" she said, her voice grating on my last nerve. I'd barely given her Joan Rivers-esque New York accent a second thought growing up, but after a year living on the West Coast, it registered somewhere between 'nails on a chalkboard' and 'dentist's drill' in my catalog of irritating sounds.

"So I wanted to tell you, I found the most adorable placemats. And I know I'm not supposed to say this, but I think you'd just love them! They have this blue floral print—I think they're hydrangeas? Or maybe they're bougainvilleas. If I can figure out the camera on this damn phone, I'll send a picture to Patti. She'll be able to tell me. She always does such a nice job with her flower garden. You remember Patti Fox, don't you? Did you know her son's engaged now?"

On and on she went for the next twelve minutes, careening between topics like a rubber bouncy ball on Red Bull. I have no clue when she found time to breathe.

And no conversation with my mother is complete without a mention of someone's kid—who just happens to be around my age—getting a great job, or getting married, or having a child. Today I learned, for at least the fifth time, that not only did Matthew Fox graduate from Yale Law School with honors, not only did he buy that darling old Craftsman on the lake in South Salem, he'd found himself a nice Jewish girl to marry.

There's always a nice Jewish girl.

By the time she paused long enough for me to put a sentence together, she'd circled back around to discussing placemats—a different set. Seriously, anytime I talk to that woman for more than a couple of minutes, I need a motion sickness pill.

"Mom, I have to go."

"But these placemats come with matching napkins. And a tea cozy. A tea cozy, Randall. It's adorable!" She seemed especially fond of that word today.

"I don't own a teapot, Mom. I don't even drink tea. You know that."

"Then I'll buy you one. You never know. I hope your father paid the American Express last month. I swear that man would forget his own head if it wasn't attached to the rest of him. Because otherwise I have to put it on the Visa..."

"Mom—"

"... or I'll have to pay cash," she continued on, completely oblivious. "Where do you bank, Randall? If I could find an ATM without a fee..."

"Mom!" I snapped, perhaps a little too hard. Yeah, she'd almost certainly scold me for that later. "I really have to go. My stop's coming up." I pulled the phone away from my ear, holding the microphone end against my palm. Mom didn't have to know she was the reason I needed my coping strategies right now. Deep, cleansing breaths. In through the nose, out through the—

But my exhale was cut short as a female voice echoed over the bus's P.A. system, her prerecorded calm mocking my frazzled state. "Next stop, Southwest Sixth Avenue and Southwest Alder Street. Sixth and Alder."

Except Sixth and Alder wasn't my stop.

It was the stop after my stop.