I'd just jockeyed my way into a seat on the bus when the men got on. I didn't look up until I heard it, loud enough to trumpet past my headphones.

"Doesn't this suck? It's so crowded because this is when all the wage slaves trudge home."

And there he was, with his weak chin and cashmere overcoat, Rich Guy Slumming On The Bus. He shared a laugh with his buddy, an attorney if ever I saw one.

"Can you believe people do this every day? It's disgusting."

His next snarky comment was interrupted by the flash of a Wustof chef's knife through the breastbone. Or at least, that's kind of what I was imagining. He went on, laughing with his buddy about the indignities of public transportation, oblivious to my white-hot hatred.

Yes, I hated him. HATED him. Every detail. I hated his wedding ring, with its busy scrolls. I hated his black leather briefcase, his silk tie, his hair plugs. I hated that he looked a little like Jerry Seinfeld, because now when I watch a re-run I'll be recalling how this doppleganger saw taking the CTA with the wage slaves "an adventure."

For all I know, this guy was wearing his older brother's clothes, on his way to a job interview. Maybe later he was going to change back into his crappy old clothes and paint offices all night long, or bartend on Rush Street. Maybe he's putting up a front, hiding the fact that he lost his family's fortune in Vegas or on a stupid day trade. Maybe he sunk it all into some ridiculous make-your-own-steering-wh eel-cover franchise and it went belly-up. I don't know.

It's all in how you look at things, ya know? And that's an important lesson in cyberspace, where any comment can be taken the wrong way. This guy made one comment, off the cuff, to a friend... but he did it where I could hear it. And where I could be offended.

Now, I like to think of myself as someone who's not easily offended. Tell me the raunchiest, rudest joke... and I'll most likely laugh. (Unless you're my husband, who for some reason can't get away with it because I get all uptight.) I may tell you you're a schmuck, but I'll still get why it's funny. But that just goes to show you how everyone has a hot button. And mine, apparently, is classism. This guy offended me -- unknowingly -- because something hit home. And he had no way of knowing he would do it. And he'd never know that it hurt.

This man may give millions to charity; snuggle crack-addicted infants, and mow lawns for the elderly. But I could never see him that way, because he's the guy who made me feel like crap about myself at a moment when I was wondering if we'd be able to pay the preschool before they start calling, and wondering who "Van Ru Credit Counseling" is and why they're leaving me voice messages every day, and wondering how I can plan Jacob's class Halloween party as cheaply as possible.

That anger followed me home today. I carried it with me as I IM'd with my husband, discussing how many bank charges we were toting up for the month. It pushed my annoyance with Danny not wiping his tush into fury, until I ripped linens off of two beds and knocked a bunch of crap to the floor. It made me skip bedtime stories and put my kids to bed without tucking them in, without kissing them.

The indignity of the bus, of being a wage slave. Wow. Well, I'm nothing if not undignified, that's for sure. But it was the scorn, the amusement. "Those tragic little people who work for a living." It's like when people make offhand remarks about how pathetic it is to live paycheck-to-paycheck. Well, forgive me if I've never known another way.

Sorry, I'm ranting. I'm tired and sad and on my third migraine pill of the day. And I feel guilty and spent. It's probably time to pack it in for the night.