I must have looked special yesterday. Somehow.
It's all very confusing.
And I'm hesitant to even talk about this because every time I have a similar story . . . my mother gets this look . . . this Why did I ever let my baby girl go off and live by herself in a place where things like this happen??? look . . . and then I feel bad.
But oh, well.
I was walking down the street after going to the bank to deposit my paycheck after spending a considerable portion of my day at work.
My attitude seems to automatically adjust to any situation I happen to be in, so I was exuding a pretty tough persona. Actually, what with the Caesar dressing smeared across my jeans and the chicken salad residue on my boots paired with the bail-bondsman/tattoo-parlor/heavy-metal-bar section of downtown I was walking through . . . I was probably pretty bad-ass.
So here I was, just walking down the street in the general direction of the light-rail, minding my own business. When this cretin of a guy whizzes past on a skateboard, turns back to kind of zoom (skate? board? pass? what is the verb I'm looking for?) past me again, and says, "Shit, woman, you're gorgeous."
I am not someone whose self-esteem gets a boost when people tell me I look nice. Or 'gorgeous' to use the cretin's vocabulary (I call him a cretin because . . . seriously . . . does a non-cretin whoosh around the city on a skateboard looking thoroughally unwashed and unkempt checking out random women? I think not. I hope not.) I just don't get it.
Seeing as how I in no way reacted to his comment, he was at least a wise creepy person and zipped on down the street to go stare at someone else's breasts. Not like there's a considerable amount of breastage here to stare at, which leaves me further wondering what the hell he was checking out so enthusiastically.
I didn't put much thought into the whole occurrence. Variations on that theme happen fairly regularly.
I was, like, fifty feet from the grocery store when I was stopped by a homeless man named Reno. He pulled a flower of a landscaping bush nearby and gave it to me (I felt sad about his picking someone else's flowers, but what was I supposed to do? Refuse the flower? Then it would be wasted. What does one do when a homeless man gives one a flower? None of my extensive education had prepared me for that moment. Ug. I knew college was a waste of time.). Said it was "criminal" for such a pretty woman to go around without anyone telling her how nice she looked, and that I "deserved" this flower.
People like to talk to me. It's a genetic trait I inherited from my father. So, since this homeless guy actually registered several notches lower on the CREEPY! scale than the skater dude from earlier, I stuck around and talked to him for awhile. I had been reading as I walked to the store, so we mostly talked about literature. It wasn't so bad. Our conversation only lasted for about two minutes because he had to go catch a bus.
Two similar happenings in the same day was obvious enough to trip the radar.
And I was very confused.
It couldn't be what I was wearing, because I'd changed clothes between getting home from work/the bank and when I left to raid the bulk candy aisle.
The only thing I can think of is . . . I was having a very good hair day. It was doing its thing all volume-y and blowing and shiny and stuff. I think I might have forgotten to brush it again that morning (remembering to brush my hair is like the bane of my existence sometimes. Such a first-world problem.). But that seems an unlikely reason . . .
'Tis odd. 'Tis very odd.
And the Schaffer is very confused.