Shake Your Head Buddy, Your Eyes Are Stuck
I have a problem. And no, it’s not the fact that I cannot stay away from department store cosmetics counters when they have the free gift promotion going on. Okay, I have two problems. Okay, but I really only have the one problem because I’m not willing to give up the free gift addiction. I mean that’s FREE STUFF people! Free lipstick, free eye shadow, free mascara, free eye cream, free perfume samples, free cute little cosmetics bags of which I now have, like, ten of floating around in my room. Let me count: red canvas, red vinyl with polka dots, pink and green stripes, blue, pink and orange squares, black with pockets, tan and red strips, funky turquoise circles, leopard print… Okay, maybe it is a problem. But I digress…
I have a problem. One time, my roommate was wandering around the apartment in his pyjamas and he caught me, um, staring at him. No, I don’t have a thing for my roommate. That would be so pointless, à la Jennifer Aniston in “The Object of My Affection.” Nope, the roommate is not special, in fact, I stare a lot, at a lot of people and a lot of things. I have a staring problem.
If a friend has a pimple, wart or large blemish I’m like Austin Powers – all “moley, moley, moley.”
If they have a stain on their shirt, I get stare-ingitis.
If they have something stuck in their teeth, I’m Dr. Stare-love.
And I know this is rude, and I try to stop myself, honest I do. But I just find things so gosh-darned curious that I can’t help myself. One way to stop me from staring at other people, make sure there’s a mirror around, because then I will just stare at myself. (Usually because I have a pimple, wart or large blemish on my face.)
Public transportation offers up way too many good opportunities to stare at people you don’t even know and will never see again.
So tall that your head brushes against the top of the subway car? That’s me staring at you, wondering if you have to jump to slam dunk.
Ridiculously handsome? I’m staring at you and trying to give you my phone number via telepathy.
Overweight? Yep, I’m looking at you. I’m so sorry but I can’t help it.
Underweight? Yep, I’m still looking at you. And probably thinking about offering you a cookie.
Garish or ill-fitting clothing? Stare.
Sitting in a skirt so that uh, you’re showing your, uh, stuff? Trying not to stare, but it’s like trying not to stare at a car-wreck so I really can’t look away and I’m just hoping and praying that you’re not showing it on purpose and also hoping that the creepy, balding, middle-aged man beside me with the white mark where his wedding band was is NOT staring at you.
May-December thing going on right there? Staring and wondering which one of you was hired.
Prominent Adam’s apple on what appears to be a woman? Stare, stare, stare.
Dreadlocks on a Caucasian? Stare, stare, stare!
Committing cardinal subway sins? Unacceptable. Now I’m Glare-itha Christie.
Hey, I’m not proud of it, and saying that I’m an equal opportunity starer is NOT an acceptable excuse. It’s like all the world is a circus and I’ve paid the admission fee and now I want to see the Cyclops. Stray too far away from the average mould, and I’m likely to assume that you’re part of the show. And really, if you are straying far from the average, the point is to be different and not to blend, so you probably don’t mind the attention. At least that’s what I tell myself. And then I try to read the subway ads again, but there’s only so many times I can stare at the ad for the Men’s Health Clinic. And then I try to listen to the music in my headphones, but that only satisfies one sense and that’s just not enough. And then I try to read my book, but unless I’m sitting down it makes me dizzy. So then it’s back to staring. And really, the only way to get me to stop is to stare intensely right back at me. And then I just feel like I’m busted and I’m forced to stop. But I figure people should stare at me, because I’m the crazy girl visibly mouthing the words to the song she is listening to.
It’s such a fun little guilty pleasure. On the subway all of these different lives cross my path for the tiniest moment in time and I can’t stop myself from peeking and wondering what their days are like, what their jobs are like, if they’re married, if they’re healthy, or if they’re happy. Or I wonder where they bought that purse, because I think it rocks and I want one too.
I have a problem. One time, my roommate was wandering around the apartment in his pyjamas and he caught me, um, staring at him. No, I don’t have a thing for my roommate. That would be so pointless, à la Jennifer Aniston in “The Object of My Affection.” Nope, the roommate is not special, in fact, I stare a lot, at a lot of people and a lot of things. I have a staring problem.
If a friend has a pimple, wart or large blemish I’m like Austin Powers – all “moley, moley, moley.”
If they have a stain on their shirt, I get stare-ingitis.
If they have something stuck in their teeth, I’m Dr. Stare-love.
And I know this is rude, and I try to stop myself, honest I do. But I just find things so gosh-darned curious that I can’t help myself. One way to stop me from staring at other people, make sure there’s a mirror around, because then I will just stare at myself. (Usually because I have a pimple, wart or large blemish on my face.)
Public transportation offers up way too many good opportunities to stare at people you don’t even know and will never see again.
So tall that your head brushes against the top of the subway car? That’s me staring at you, wondering if you have to jump to slam dunk.
Ridiculously handsome? I’m staring at you and trying to give you my phone number via telepathy.
Overweight? Yep, I’m looking at you. I’m so sorry but I can’t help it.
Underweight? Yep, I’m still looking at you. And probably thinking about offering you a cookie.
Garish or ill-fitting clothing? Stare.
Sitting in a skirt so that uh, you’re showing your, uh, stuff? Trying not to stare, but it’s like trying not to stare at a car-wreck so I really can’t look away and I’m just hoping and praying that you’re not showing it on purpose and also hoping that the creepy, balding, middle-aged man beside me with the white mark where his wedding band was is NOT staring at you.
May-December thing going on right there? Staring and wondering which one of you was hired.
Prominent Adam’s apple on what appears to be a woman? Stare, stare, stare.
Dreadlocks on a Caucasian? Stare, stare, stare!
Committing cardinal subway sins? Unacceptable. Now I’m Glare-itha Christie.
Hey, I’m not proud of it, and saying that I’m an equal opportunity starer is NOT an acceptable excuse. It’s like all the world is a circus and I’ve paid the admission fee and now I want to see the Cyclops. Stray too far away from the average mould, and I’m likely to assume that you’re part of the show. And really, if you are straying far from the average, the point is to be different and not to blend, so you probably don’t mind the attention. At least that’s what I tell myself. And then I try to read the subway ads again, but there’s only so many times I can stare at the ad for the Men’s Health Clinic. And then I try to listen to the music in my headphones, but that only satisfies one sense and that’s just not enough. And then I try to read my book, but unless I’m sitting down it makes me dizzy. So then it’s back to staring. And really, the only way to get me to stop is to stare intensely right back at me. And then I just feel like I’m busted and I’m forced to stop. But I figure people should stare at me, because I’m the crazy girl visibly mouthing the words to the song she is listening to.
It’s such a fun little guilty pleasure. On the subway all of these different lives cross my path for the tiniest moment in time and I can’t stop myself from peeking and wondering what their days are like, what their jobs are like, if they’re married, if they’re healthy, or if they’re happy. Or I wonder where they bought that purse, because I think it rocks and I want one too.
posted by nerdifer at 2:56 p.m.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home