Short Straw

Whenever my inner dialogue starts playing, I am assured of two things:

1.)    Something is happening where there are too many possible reactions to the ridiculousness that I have to test possible responses via virtual role-play in my head before responding.

2.)    I will have a glazed look on my face and I am assuredly giving a subtle and seemingly attentive nod to whomever it is that is the source of said ridiculousness.

You know how on Jeopardy the music is playing and Alex Trebek walks across the stage to his position of not quite prime time authority and then the camera flashes to the contestants? Today I had a moment where I suddenly saw myself behind a neon trimmed podium in an ill-fitting, somewhat dated navy skirt suit (already sounding pretty hot, right?) and a slightly askew hairstyle. When it comes time for Alex (in my inner dialogue, Alex and I are on a first name basis and he tells me he finds me quite charming) to introduce me to the audience and home viewers, he says “I understand that you once fell off a skate board and skinned your ass…why don’t you tell us about that”.  Ummm, yeah… that’s not awkward or anything.

Anyway: Blah, blah, blah…it’s time to play the game. Alex reads off the categories and I am eagerly poised:

Explanatives That Rhyme with “Chuck”
Shit That’s None of Your Business
Things That You shouldn’t Do While Driving
Shit That’s Not My Problem
Things You don’t Want Your Mother to Know – EVER
Mystery Smells

I won the backstage coin toss (shocker, I know. It’s my inner dialogue. If you lose in your own head, then you need more than a pill and a friendly chat with a well paid professional to manage your psychosis). “Okay, I’ll take ‘Shit That’s Not My Problem’ for $500”… and let me just tell you that if Alex Trebek had been in my bedroom when I opened my eyes this morning and asked me to select my category, you would think I would have chosen this as the theme for my day. Because that’s how it went. All. Day. Long.

Phrase of the day: This is so not my problem.

Only I just said it in my head and smiled at everyone. Because, let’s be honest: screaming at everyone to just shut the hell up only makes you a part of the problem and Alex would be very disappointed.

White Line

The mall is kind of a surreal place. Windows brimming with seemingly beautiful things that will inevitably take up space better suited for something else or maybe nothing at all. Clothes that never look the same on you as they do in the window and things that once placed on your shelf will likely draw little attention. Things that are pretty, but aren’t real. The truth is that some of the most real things are the least pretty, and you won’t find them on display behind plate glass.

I like to be by myself and, in case you hadn’t already gathered, I’m not a huge fan of the mall - which is frequently brimming with people.  Ironically, I’m not a huge fan of most people either. I really should just stay away. All that aside, I have recently taken to seeking what is classified as “designer” duck tape. It turns up on the oddest of places and I found myself there. The mall. Not the oddest places. Actually, there is some truth to that, too… ANYWAY…

Whilst perusing, I detoured into an “imports” shop that seemed like the kind of place where I could probably buy a bong if I knew who to ask for. I picked through chunky knitted mittens, incense, and an odd assortment of other items. I was eventually approached by a girl who worked there wanting to know if I needed help. “No thanks. I’m just poking around.” She turned to the girl who had come in behind me and said, “Speaking of poking around, I’m getting my face tattooed”. To which the other girl responded (very casually, by the way…) “With what?”

At this point I’m eaves dropping and feigning disinterest. THIS is what she said:

“A white line down the middle of my face”.

I won’t lie. These girls are what I would classify as “Alterna-teens”. Hair, boots, stockings… I could go on and on.  I’m generally indifferent to how people dress or style their hair. I have no aversion to piercings or tattoos. My hair, once upon a time, tasted the rainbow…so-to-speak…

A white line.

A single white line.

What, I wonder, could the significance of that be?

A line in the sand? Parting lines? Could it be merely for shock value? An ornamental item like an obscure coffee table book placed for the purpose of creating conversation?

She had my attention.  Not in the same way you notice a pregnant woman, a nun, or someone playing music on the street. It was like seeing something broken that you forgot you had. You don’t really know or remember what happened to it, but you know that something did happen and now it’s walking around living a metaphor that receives little understanding.  That’s not to say that all displays of “self expression” are indicative of something psychologically significant. I truly believe that all people are damaged in some way whether they deal with it quietly in their own mind or in a way that the world can see.

So, I left the store and then the mall; and I am still thinking about the white line. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I am tormented by this encounter so much as I am confused. As to whether or not this is something worth remembering, I really don’t know. We don’t have to understand what other people do, but there are times that it would make life easier.