This week in disturbing events
These two events have nowhere else to go but here, at the end of the week. They stand out in my mind because they disturbed/upset/ickyfeelinged me, in their own separate ways. If I were an annoying Seinfeld character (yes, I am the third person you know in the entire world who despises Seinfeld) I would premise these stories with, "What is up with (blankety blank)?" But I'm not, so I won't.
Monday, 7PM, at Dolphin Gym on Avenue B and 3rd street. I am merrily ellipticaling, minding my own cardiac business, when I see two stationary cyclists chatting. One is a girl, one is a guy. "Oh how nice, they must know each other!" I think, not jealous at all, because honestly it's really hard to casually shoot the shit while racing towards a healthy heart rate. At least for me. Anyway, they chat, then cycle, then chat, then all of a sudden, their necks are stretching and their mouths are veering dangerously close to each other. In a horrible flash I see it all: These two are dating. Sick. These two exercise together. Awwwkward. These two are about to make out, WHILE exercising. Holy shit, no God, please don't do this to me--and there they go, smooching away while riding their bikes to nowhere. There is no kissing in the gym while riding. That is my rule and I think it's a good one. If I wanted to be nauseated by public displays of affection I'd go hang out in the park and watch people on their carriage rides. Not like I've ever done that.
Yesterday, 6PM, Manhattan Mall, on my way to buy two shirts totaling $13.50 (thank you Charlotte Russe clearance rack). A lost-looking woman in a coat and hat says, "Excuse me, can I ask you something?" and touches my arm. She has a herpes-like cold sore on her lip, and there is a big black hair growing right through it, I swear to God. Which is fine, I don't discriminate when I give directions, which is what I thought was about to happen. But it was much, much worse.
"Is this your natural hair color?" she asks, grabbing a hunk of my hair in her creepy claws. "Um, yes." "Veeerry nice! And are these your real nails?" she coos, grabbing my hand, barely glancing at my chewed-down, splitting, decidedly non-fake nails, nails no one would ever shell out money for. "Yeah..." I reply, just as she whips out a crappy old used nail buffer AND STARTS TO BUFF MY NAILS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MALL. I snatched my hand away and ran to the safe welcoming arms of Charlotte Russe. To be fair, as I looked back quickly as I ran, she was standing near the Dead Sea Minerals stand and probably just wanted to help. But look, do not pull my hair and then try to buff my nails, when you're not wearing a beauty person uniform/apron.
People. Stop disgusting me. You are making me lose my faith in humanity. On that note, I am going to Vermont this weekend to restore said faith by ogling hippie boys and their patchwork pants at Magic Hat Mardi Gras. Boo-yah.
Monday, 7PM, at Dolphin Gym on Avenue B and 3rd street. I am merrily ellipticaling, minding my own cardiac business, when I see two stationary cyclists chatting. One is a girl, one is a guy. "Oh how nice, they must know each other!" I think, not jealous at all, because honestly it's really hard to casually shoot the shit while racing towards a healthy heart rate. At least for me. Anyway, they chat, then cycle, then chat, then all of a sudden, their necks are stretching and their mouths are veering dangerously close to each other. In a horrible flash I see it all: These two are dating. Sick. These two exercise together. Awwwkward. These two are about to make out, WHILE exercising. Holy shit, no God, please don't do this to me--and there they go, smooching away while riding their bikes to nowhere. There is no kissing in the gym while riding. That is my rule and I think it's a good one. If I wanted to be nauseated by public displays of affection I'd go hang out in the park and watch people on their carriage rides. Not like I've ever done that.
Yesterday, 6PM, Manhattan Mall, on my way to buy two shirts totaling $13.50 (thank you Charlotte Russe clearance rack). A lost-looking woman in a coat and hat says, "Excuse me, can I ask you something?" and touches my arm. She has a herpes-like cold sore on her lip, and there is a big black hair growing right through it, I swear to God. Which is fine, I don't discriminate when I give directions, which is what I thought was about to happen. But it was much, much worse.
"Is this your natural hair color?" she asks, grabbing a hunk of my hair in her creepy claws. "Um, yes." "Veeerry nice! And are these your real nails?" she coos, grabbing my hand, barely glancing at my chewed-down, splitting, decidedly non-fake nails, nails no one would ever shell out money for. "Yeah..." I reply, just as she whips out a crappy old used nail buffer AND STARTS TO BUFF MY NAILS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MALL. I snatched my hand away and ran to the safe welcoming arms of Charlotte Russe. To be fair, as I looked back quickly as I ran, she was standing near the Dead Sea Minerals stand and probably just wanted to help. But look, do not pull my hair and then try to buff my nails, when you're not wearing a beauty person uniform/apron.
People. Stop disgusting me. You are making me lose my faith in humanity. On that note, I am going to Vermont this weekend to restore said faith by ogling hippie boys and their patchwork pants at Magic Hat Mardi Gras. Boo-yah.
posted by Tete Rouge at 2:16 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home