Imported from MySpace blog
My self-perception is freakishly skewed. Those of you who know me are probably aware of this. Those of you who don’t, let me explain:
A gas station attendant the other day called me ma’am. Although this doesn’t usually bug me, it did this time because she was about my age and didn’t look like the ma’am-ing type. Usually they’re older, from the South, have been in the military or are polite anachronisms in a rude world. She had blue eyeshadow on and was fashionable. She should’ve been a jerk, not least because pumping gas is a crappy, thankless job. But she wasn’t. The only explanation? I’m old. I’m a wrinkled, old hag. But a wrinkled old hag that gets her some mad respect, bitches.
My ridiculous funk was broken when a Fred Meyer checker told me to “Have a nice day, kiddo.” Awwww. Friendly grandfatherly checkers make me smile.
Then, on another exciting excursion to get gas (I know, you wish you were me, don’t you? Not everyone can live the glitterati life of me, you’ll just have to get over it) the guy thanked me “for being so cool.” Despite the fact that it was mostly because I didn’t yell at him when he snapped the wiper blade from its mooring while hurriedly washing the windshield, it still restored my faith in myself. I am cool, dammit!
My day was thrown off yet again when, after emerging from the gym looking dazed from all the fake tans and eyeliner I’d just encountered, I found a note on my car saying, “Try parking in your own spot. I wouldn’t get into my vehicle.”
What cryptic terrorist threat was this? “I wouldn’t get into my vehicle”?! Why? Was there a dirty bomb attached to the starting mechanism? Should I call Medford’s finest?
I peered closely at the scrawled pencil. Oh. “I couldn’t get into my vehicle.” Apparently I parked too close to someone. Sheesh. Maybe their SUV was just too hulking. Bastards. I muttered under my breath about that one for way too long to be considered psychologically healthy.
Someday, I’ll likely succumb to my natural urge to become a hermit, emerging from my hovel only once a year to yell at trick-or-treaters. Until then, I’ll continue to let the harmless comments of people I don’t know fuck with my headspace.