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It’s Good to See Me?!

January 13, 2013

“Hi, Marie,” I heard someone say as I walked down the aisle of Albertsons looking for light bulbs. I hadn’t even seen him pass by. I turned around to see……I don’t have a nickname for him. Mr. Hair. We’ll call him Mr. Hair. “Oh, Hi, Mr. Hair” I said, surprised and caught off guard.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

It’s good to see me. Really?

I met Mr. Hair months ago. Short. Indian graduate student. Goofy looking with a huge, full head of curly hair that ends in a sort of dread-like tail. He always wears a full beard and he has big eyes. I really don’t know what it is about him but I had a huge crush on him the minute I saw him. He was with a group of friends at the Blue Moon that first time. He danced awkwardly to the cajun music. I asked him to dance a couple of times. I told him he was cute. I asked his name at the bar. Over the course of a few subsequent weekends, I’d see him on occasion. His friends all knew I had a crush on him. They seemed excited that somebody liked Mr. Hair. They claimed he was shy but wanted to find a girlfriend.

I saw him at festivals and other events. He never approached me. Sometimes it seemed like he would go the other way when I would show up. After a while he became simply one of a hosts of guys I had a crush on…just another subject for Kitten and Pickle jokes, fodder for the endless conjecture we engage in about the mysterious behavior of men (or boys). Eventually, after many rather pathetic and obvious attempts to put myself in the right place at the right time, available for his attentions, I gave up. He wouldn’t give me the time of day. I told myself he was obviously not interested in me.

And then I get, “It’s good to see you.” WTF is that?

I was so taken aback by the fact that he even acknowledged my presence I didn’t know what to say. I wish I would’ve had the presence of mind to say, “Oh, Hi, Mr. Hair. It’s good to see me? Really? ‘Cause every other time you’ve seen me you ignore me or go the other way. If it’s good to see me why don’t you do something about seeing me again? Like, I don’t know, ask me for my phone number. Call me. Ask me to go for coffee.”

I don’t understand these men. The other night at Blue Moon, one of his friends, let’s call him Paul (he’s white and has no distinctive nickname-able attributes) was paying all kinds of attention to me. He told Liz that he likes me and would like to get to know me better. Has he asked me for my number? No. Hot French guy from New Year’s Eve. He asked for my number….and….nothing.

And then there’s Tennis Bashir. Ah, lovely Tennis Bashir. Sigh. That’s an ongoing story I haven’t finished yet. He took the time to stop what he was doing, drive to Girard Park at exactly the time he knew I would be walking, sit there on a bench and wait for me to come around and introduce himself and ask for my phone number. Of course, that’s just half the battle. It’s what they do with that number after they get it that really counts. But you can’t start playing that little game if you don’t grow a pair and take the time to ask that simple, little question: “Can I have your phone number and call you sometime?”

“Yes. Yes you can, damn it. But you have to fucking ask first!”

“It’s good to see you,” he said. Well, great. I’m glad Mr. Hair had the treat of seeing me for 10 seconds at Albertsons. That’s just great. Good going Mr. Hair. Let’s just leave it to chance that you will see me again, why don’t we? When you do I’m sure you’ll just stand around and not talk to me like every other time before. Don’t worry. I’ll be the brave one, again. I’ll go up to you and say, “Hi, Mr. Hair. It’s good to see you,” and walk away.

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From → Rantings

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