(no subject)
I feel the need to recount this grocery store incident here, so Kate avert your eyes because I don't mean to be repetetive. But really, it says a lot about my life. In the same day, the same hour, really the same ten minutes, I ran into two admirers who generally typify all my admirers (at least among strangers). The first I brushed while cruising past the soy sauce, moving on to cat food. She was about eighty and about as wispy as her palm-frond patterned blouse and old-book-yellow hair. "My dear," (no shit she said it) "my dear...what a lovely dress you have. Oh, you look just so lovely in that dress...where =did= you get it?" (not wanting to say I knicked it from a give-away bin in New Orleans) "Ohherr..a used clothing store?" "Oh my," (topsy dithering pause) "nothing to be embarrassed about...I do most of my shopping in used clothing stores. For example," (tugging my sleeve and staring in the opposite direction) "have you been to that..oh what was it..that Goodwill in...oh where was..." etc. etc. for the span of five minutes, whereupon I wandered away with purpose and smiled a lot behind her back. I do love old women and it wasn't until I ran into my second admirer that I started to have a problem with these patterns of my life.
He was walking past the cashiers in the direction of the frozen foods, I was heading back towards the vegetables. He had stared (ashamedly) earlier, when we passed by the fancy pasta sauces (Safeway, yeah). So this time I smiled, to be friendly and partially because the dragon on his teeshirt made me happy. He was overweight and reclusive in every aspect and the box of pasta in his hand flew into the air when I smiled at him. This would have made me smile bigger if I had been in a meaner mood, but I was feeling reflective in that grocery shopping sort of way and it occured to me as he bent to pick up the rottini (my favorite, by chance or perfection), that he would refuse to meet my eyes when he straighted. What's more, that he and his breatheren (as I'm sure they call themselves) would never meet my eyes, never speak to me, never find the courage to get to know me enough to know that I have lived amongst them--at least in spirit. That I have read the same fantasy books from which their fantasies of irish girls in flowy dresses first emerged. And even that I have had probably more ugly-crushes than standard-crushes in my life and at the very least am accustomed to geek friendships. No, I will probably never break bread much less break hearts with the people who are most naturally and truly attracted to me because they are either insane or insanely awkward.
This is not to discount filthy old men and loud middle aged women ("You go on and SPARKLE, girl!") from the group, but merely to say that every once in a rare while I wish I were of the variety of women who catch the eyes of overly proud but essentially golden-hearted rich men. That would be nice. Or even regular old low-key smart boys...if they actually exist. However, I firmly believe in counting up one's blessings with one's trials and actually I do sincerely love the fact that old people think I'm beautiful--my face perhaps recalling sepia memories of the happy days of corsetry and arranged marriages. Now I'm just being obnoxious...but seriously, I think of it this way: If my face and anachronistic clothing can't buy me a decent love affair, at least they can make some random people happy. Just like I hope this made someone or other smile. Toodles!
He was walking past the cashiers in the direction of the frozen foods, I was heading back towards the vegetables. He had stared (ashamedly) earlier, when we passed by the fancy pasta sauces (Safeway, yeah). So this time I smiled, to be friendly and partially because the dragon on his teeshirt made me happy. He was overweight and reclusive in every aspect and the box of pasta in his hand flew into the air when I smiled at him. This would have made me smile bigger if I had been in a meaner mood, but I was feeling reflective in that grocery shopping sort of way and it occured to me as he bent to pick up the rottini (my favorite, by chance or perfection), that he would refuse to meet my eyes when he straighted. What's more, that he and his breatheren (as I'm sure they call themselves) would never meet my eyes, never speak to me, never find the courage to get to know me enough to know that I have lived amongst them--at least in spirit. That I have read the same fantasy books from which their fantasies of irish girls in flowy dresses first emerged. And even that I have had probably more ugly-crushes than standard-crushes in my life and at the very least am accustomed to geek friendships. No, I will probably never break bread much less break hearts with the people who are most naturally and truly attracted to me because they are either insane or insanely awkward.
This is not to discount filthy old men and loud middle aged women ("You go on and SPARKLE, girl!") from the group, but merely to say that every once in a rare while I wish I were of the variety of women who catch the eyes of overly proud but essentially golden-hearted rich men. That would be nice. Or even regular old low-key smart boys...if they actually exist. However, I firmly believe in counting up one's blessings with one's trials and actually I do sincerely love the fact that old people think I'm beautiful--my face perhaps recalling sepia memories of the happy days of corsetry and arranged marriages. Now I'm just being obnoxious...but seriously, I think of it this way: If my face and anachronistic clothing can't buy me a decent love affair, at least they can make some random people happy. Just like I hope this made someone or other smile. Toodles!