I also enjoy paying your social security
21 March 2007Old people seem to really enjoy talking to me. I file these people away with the same ones that seem to think I am extremely good at giving directions, not just to exact locations but to vague ones that may or may not exist at all (“Is there a jewish bookstore nearby?” “Isn’t there a German restaurant around here?”). I have no idea what I silently convey to them that says “please talk to me and not one of the many people in the immediate area that, unlike me, are not wearing headphones,” though my current theory is that freckles imply trustworthiness. One time in college I was stopped by a Ya-Ya Sisterhood-type crew that appeared to be on a whirlwind tour of Colonial Williamsburg (hard to do) who wanted to know everything that I knew about the sorority system at W&M. How many houses were there? How many girls live in each house? Did we all have dinner together? Which fraternity were we associated with? (10; between 12 and 20; No; and whoever had the beer). I never got used to the whole southern hospitality/ needless chatter (particularly after that time at Food Lion when the cashier told me that I was beautiful, and then added that I “looked like {I} needed to hear that today.” Wait, what? So, you’re lying?) thing and after my sorority court interrogation I went home to my roommate and speculated that the old ladies were actually spies sent in by the National Panhellenic Council in order to test my knowledge of the Greek system for reasons that were not yet clear. “I think old people just really like to talk to young people,” she replied simply. She was a waitress, so she was kind of paid to talk to random people. As far as I know, no one is paying me to hear a sweet old Irish woman talk about a stray black chest hair she found, but I haven’t gotten my tax return back yet and maybe that’ll somehow show up on there. (My tax return is supposed to show up this week and, even though it’s been explained to me many, many times by my enduringly patient boyfriend that that money was mine to begin with, it still feels like a big present. Or, it would, if I were actually able to spend it on things like Leaving The Country and Dozens Of Shoes {releated subcomment: I’ve decided that I’m only attending one wedding in 2008. At the most. I’ll settle for zero. I’ve done 3-4 a year since college and I think it’s time for a forced slow down. If you love me and are currently in a monogamous relationship that’s destined to last forever, then I’m giving you even MORE of a reason to issue an engagement ultimatum to your one and only: I plan on only having room in my life for one celebration of everlasting love in my 26th-ish year, so I suggest you get on my calendar now. I’ll be accepting bids for my wedding attendance through the end of June ‘07. Start compiling your proposals–both to your significant others, and the powerpoint that I’m going to need via email that clearly outlines why your wedding is THE wedding for me in oh-eight–soon}. Anyway, I filed online but my direct deposit didn’t work for some reason, so now I have to wait for my money to come in the MAIL, like how the cavemen used to). Talking to old people isn’t so bad because they’re usually smaller than I am, so I’m always reassured that if they’re actually part of some geriatric crime ring and really want to rob and beat me, I’ll be able to overtake them and run away. Or use phrases like “text message” and “blog” in order to sufficiently confuse them so I can make my escape. (Until recently, this also worked with my parents, who aren’t even Officially Old yet. They are, however, becoming more and more technologically savvy, so I can no longer use talking about iTunes as a way to disorient them, and have to instead make vague allusions to my sex life in order to drive them away, screaming and looking for an iron with which to solder their ears shut). But it always seems like the old people that I’d actually enjoy talking to want nothing to do with me. Like the (70-ish) gentleman at my gym who used the stationary bike next to me a few weeks ago, wearing wool slacks, a button down shirt, necktie and suspenders. For a second I thought he was Larry King, then I realized he was just inappropriately dressed for fitness. He didn’t want to talk to me, he wanted to pedal at a rate of .5 miles per hour with his cane hooked over the handlebars. But the woman who sat down next to me to wait for the subway a few Sundays ago, she really wanted to talk. In particular, she wanted to talk about going to Burlington Coat Factory, and then to tell me a story about an errant chest hair she had recently found. On her body.
I have big issues with body hair. I was recently reading the kick-ass Such A Pretty Face anthology on beauty that Amulet is putting out this Spring, and almost fell over and died at the Lauren Myracle story, which is totally effing awesome despite telling the tale of an errant chin hair gone insane on the face of the homecoming queen. If it weren’t so freakin’ funny I would have had to stop reading as soon as said queen reached for the tweezers, because I am terrified of hair on other peoples’ bodies. This is probably related to the rogue ape gene that runs through the Stickles men. I’m going to start preemptively praying to god now that whatever boys I wind up bringing into the world keep their naked mole rat status well past puberty. (Also, ewwwww!).
That Sunday was my final improv class (sad face! It was also endlessly adorable and kind of like the last day of summer camp, what with all the email exchanging and the promises of reuniting, possibly in another improv class. I have to say that this class served its exact purpose in that it was the most terrifying thing on earth for me and now things that I previously considered terrifying, such as walking into a bar alone or expressing one of my many opinions at work in front of, say, more than 1 person, have become a lot easier. Also, I was not totally heinous and unfunny at improv, which was good news. I did see myself immediately falling into patterns that I’ll have to break later on, namely that my first instinct in scenes is to always begin by either (a) dancing or (b) playing the role of a bitchy pregnant woman. Not that those things aren’t funny, there’s just, you know, more to life than that) I sat on the bench at the subway station, which I never do, and a tiny lady sat next to me and kind of leaned into me. She appeared to have showered recently so it was okay. After a discussion of the merchandise available at Burlington Coat Factory and the various subway and bus lines that can lead you to such a mecca, she went seamlessly into the show and tell portion of the afternoon, wherein she talked extensively about the small leather card holder that she uses to house her MetroCard and how hard it was to find a new one after the old one had ripped. (During this time, she also gave me visual confirmation that she was carrying not ony $300 in cash, but her social security card. It didn’t occur to me until later that, had I been a different person, she might have been in for a lot more excitement on her journey to Burlington Coat Factory). After that, she started talking about one of her friends from Ireland who had come to visit her in the city. “I had just gotten a new mattress so she slept in the bed with me. And as we were going to bed one night, I said, ‘Tara! I have one long black hair on my chest, look! Can you hand me the scissors?’ and she said ‘I’ll tell you what you should do. Take a look down your pants and see if you’ve grown a penis.’” The she laughed merrily for a full minute before looking up and announcing “train’s here!” and cutting in front of me to get on board.
One Response to “I also enjoy paying your social security”
March 22nd, 2007 at 6:09 pm
PHEW. I literally thought I was the only one who attracted such unwanted and, indeed, unwarranted attention from the elderly in the form of stories of such a ghastly inappropriate nature. Think of it this way — they’re going to tell SOMEONE. Be glad that it’s you — you, who can avoid making “the face” wherein they feel judged or disliked and not someone who’ll inevitably be mean or worse, ignore them. In the end you made an old person very happy to share her disgusting story.