I guess the type of person I get along least with are those with low self-esteem. Well, maybe that’s not the proper category. Self-conscious? Basically, anyone who has that need to impress, either with material goods, intellect or just facts and statistics. Material goods, intellect and just facts and statistics can be good things to have and to give, but not when it’s unasked and unwarranted.
Know-it-all’s, they’re in that group.
I feel I can’t have a normal conversation. I feel like I’m being sold to. And when I feel I’m being sold to, I immediately put away the purse (why wouldn’t I say wallet first?) and try to get the fuck out. Flee the scene.
Both men and women do this, but of course it’s the men that irritate more. They probably do it more as I’m a man, and it’s some form of competition. Sometimes I don’t know I’m competing until they give it away with a certain phrase. And then I feel ripped off that throughout the conversation, I was being agreeable when I should’ve been on the defense.
Because I don’t like being had either.
Argh, this is all poison that I spew because I’m mentally and physically drained. Wrought with injuries, a pimple growing on my forehead.
I couldn’t surf today because of an old shoulder injury in conjunction with an elbow I injured just this morning at Hammerhead Fitness, around the corner from my pad.
Lots of big dudes in there. Lots of hot women. There was that incredibly fit, incredibly feminine … local? … girl in there with the white sports bra and kind face. A little above-average face, but it looked girl-next-doory, like she wears sundresses and appreciates men opening car doors for her. We made eye contact a few times but like any other gym in the universe, it’s just awkward to open up conversation. Maybe it’s not in Bali? Because of all the tourists? Meh, dunno, I’ve never been good at the cold open.
Well, there was that one incident on a plane ride from Toronto to Los Angeles where the flight attendant picked me up. I was seated in my economy seat with two friends scattered throughout the plane. Reading, watching a movie, whatever it was I was doing, was interrupted by a gleeful, middle-aged flight attendant with curly red hair and rosy cheeks. She looked like George Constanza’s mother. She giggled as she said, “My friend, she would like to buy you a beer!”
“Oh, I don’t drink on flights, no thanks.”
She was visibly shocked, her eyes turning from happy slits to regular caucasian-sized eyes. “But it’s a free beer. From my friend.”
Later I went to the washroom at the back of the plane and passed my friend’s seat. “Some flight attendant wanted to buy me a drink. Though I don’t know what she looks like so I said no.”
“Do it! She’s hot, holy shit, do it!”
I went back to my seat and when I saw George Costanza’s mom, asked if the offer was still on the table and it was. Maybe 30 minutes later I had another one, and then a young, Gino male flight attendant came by and said, “You should go to the back and thank her.”
I went to the back. She was this lithe, tall, blond French Canadian. Probably younger but looked about my age. She was gorgeous, stunning. She was too good for me. Way too good to be buying me drinks on a flight — that’s gotta be frowned upon, right?
We stood in the galley and talked, both nervous. I rarely talk to women in this manner sober. She was doing this and that with latches and buttons and cases and trays. There was a line up to the men’s washroom that was out of my field of vision. Later I learned that my friend was in that line and witnessed the envy of the men who wished the stunning blond French Canadian with the Quebecois accent bought them beers instead.
During landing, we sat in the back row where the flight attendants sit. We talked about sneaking back food from Trader Joe’s and how she sleeps in a bunk with other flight attendants in LA and Toronto. I asked for her email (I’m sure it wasn’t her phone number).
Once we taxied to the terminal, I scrammed. I was dating a girl in LA at the time who was waiting for us at baggage claim. I had to get the fuck out of there before world’s collided.
In retrospect, I made the wrong decision. Well, no, I made the right one — no one got hurt.
We emailed back and forth. She landed in Toronto once but could only meet at 4pm so I declined. Only drinking dates at night for me. Then on Facebook, she revealed she was pregnant and with the father. The timing was too close; I must’ve been the fling that she needed in order to something something blah blah blah.