The Worst of Me.
There are places, physical places, that bring out the absolute worst in me. Most people have situations that bring out the worst in them, like being verbally manhandled, or getting a call from a telemarketer or tailgating. I have actual places that turn me into a 5 level hell beast with no remorse.
1. Bars.
This isn’t for the usual reasons. Well not the reasons you would think, because they are usual reasons for me. You know that one person you know that drives you absolutely crazy because they have no respect for women/monks/presidents/small children, whoever? And they are always doing stupid, disrespectful things to that group of people they don’t respect and it’s annoying. And rude. And condescending and stuff. That’s me. In a bar. At night. Only the group of people I don’t respect are bar men. Not all of them, but most of them. When I go to the bars, it’s usually by someone else’s will and I am being forced into the unglorious role of wing-woman. Which means someone other than myself is looking to meet someone. Because I have the Man, I don’t want to partake. I don’t need to make friends or be witty or nice or look good or be intelligent or polite. So I’m not. And when we get approached by bar guys – which always happens ‘cause I’m dead sexy and so are my friends – a switch flips and I become a 5’2, heel wearin’, busty, foul-mouthed Incredible Hulk. Minus the green hair and testosterone. All the sudden, I can’t stand guys that obviously shoot ‘roids and work out obsessively. I don’t like guys that self-tan. I don’t want to talk to strangers wearing tight shirts. The fake-ness of bar men becomes blaringly obvious when they flash their Zoom White toothy smile. Its okay for me to hairspray my hair to Jersey girl heights, not ok for a man. I don’t want to be approached by a man wearing hideous imported Italian leather shoes with such pride that he just might cream his jeans if he were to look at his feet. Rage comes verbally spewing out of my mouth. My friends have stopped inviting me out because I chase all the dudes away. They should feel fortunate.
2. Grocery stores.
The ignorant flock to grocery stores. I think they linger there. Loitering. Waiting for me to show up, all perky and joyous at the thought of purchasing sustenance and making food of goodness and health. But I cross the slide doors into the over air-conditioned box and a dark cloud of gloom floats over to the top of my brunette-crowned head because I realized that the place is swarming with ingrates. Most of them have small whiney children that lack manners, hygiene, volume control, common sense and brain cells. They take too long figuring out what type of milk they want to buy and how many pounds of turkey ham they need, and I get stuck behind them. I look like the epitome of organization, I arrive prepared with a list and a take-no-prisoners approach. Get in, get out, don’t dilly. They have nothing better to do but spend the day debating the merits of white onions and yellow onions and HOLY SHIT, there are red onions! They look at magazines while holding up the checkout line. I power blast around people in super markets and am not afraid to battle ram their aisle-blocking carts. I urge them along in pissed off tones – “The checker is waiting for you to move.” On one journey to the grocery store with my brother, I attempted to help a lady who was having issues with the self-check – why does it never fail to attract humans with the lowest IQ like mosquitoes to a brilliantly lit mosquito trap? I WAS BEING HELPFUL, she got pissy. Words were exchanged. I called her a cum-guzzling gutter slut. Harsh? I’m not proud of my actions. I blame the grocery stores. And my ex-boyfriends for teaching me dirty words. My brother still laughs about it today.
3. Elevators.
I do not have any idea why elevators are one of the worst places for me, but they are. I should be happy to be on an elevator. I live on the 18th floor of a highrise. I work on the 20th floor of another highrise. Without the elevator, I’d be (a lot thinner, with toned legs like Serena Williams) trucking my trunk-o-junk butt up 18 to 20 floors almost 10 times a day, showing up to work sweating like a pig on a spit. But no. I’m a raving lunatic. The Man can attest to this. I stand in front of the retracting doors telling people who attempt to board that they CAN NOT ENTER. “No. You can’t get on.” Serious face, unblinking eyes as I stare them down, challenging them to defy my absolute word and incur my wrath. Like I’m the elevator police. I usually succumb though. If someone fails to hold the elevator for me when I’m 5 steps away from crossing the threshold, I yell obscenities or insults as the door is closing, so they can hear my words echo through the empty elevator car. I’ve been known to call non-elevator-holders “Elevator Novices,” or “Elevator Hacks.” Say things like “Jerk!” “Thanks for holding the elevator you HACK” and “I know what you look like.” Terrible.
4. Bathrooms
My Ma got these emails once – when I was a teenager, so a decade ago – that had a list of things to do in public situations. Like being on an elevator and being in a bathroom. It was understood that you needed an audience for these things to be funny. Example: in a crowded toilet, after doing you business and while still in the stall, stand up and loudly remark “Wow, more sinkers than floaters this time.” I thought the lists were hilarious, until she started doing them while I was with her. They’ve stuck with me, and I still have a hankering for debauchery in public restrooms. Loud farts, enthusiastic grunts and sighs. Whistling. Whistling is SO ear piercing in the ceramic tile fortress of bathrooms. I want to fake a phone call, talk on the phone, laugh and say “YEA! It is stinky in here. Someone’s dropping the kids off at the pool!” Then nod knowingly at the poop-perp while washing my hands.
I should steer clear of these areas. If I lived in a less friendly city, I’d have battle scars from being shot and maimed. Alas. My unfettered rage in such situations goes unchecked. But generally, I’m a jolly human. Just don’t get stuck in an elevator with me.
