Please note the date stamps.
And you WOULD bring a fruitcake.
Forgive my blatant racism, but here’s a list of the most respectable group of men (from most to least respectable), by race, based solely on who has been standing up to give me their seat on the subway in this last trimester of pregnancy.
So that’s it. Those are my findings*. Did I really need to break this down by race, and was doing so kind of offensive? No, I did not. And yes, probably? But I notice what I notice and thought it was an interesting trend, and unlike people who claim “I don’t see race,” I’d like to counter with “Ok, but I have eyes.”
*Findings of this study** are based solely on MY experience and observations alone. They should not be generalized to apply negative stereotyping to any particular group of people, which shouldn’t really be an issue as all races above are presented in a complimentary manner. Except, as a reminder, white men. They are all dicks.
**calling this a study is an insult to the word study.
We just moved to a new apartment building last week, and I kid you not, Eric already knows the name of every person who works here, from the 7 different doormen to the maintenance crew to the service entrance security guards. He passes them in the lobby and with a huge, happy-to-know-ya smile, says, “Hey, how’s it goin [insert worker’s first name here, because I sure as shit don’t know it]!”, as he is already everyone’s best friend and probably in some form of fantasy sports league with them, as he was with the doormen in our last building.
Me? I’ve interacted with one person. Unwillingly.
It happened in the gym this morning.
Me: <“exercising,” headphones on OBVIOUSLY, and generally minding my own business>
Guy: “Wow, look at you! You’re ready to pop!”
Me: “Well, not quite yet, but yes, end of August…”
Guy: “And you’re allowed to exercise? That doesn’t seem safe! You’re sure that’s safe?”
Me: “I’m on a back-supported bike made for seniors, cycling at level 1. I think I’ll be ok!”
Guy: “I don’t know, you’re making me nervous…”
Me: “Well, you’re making me uncomfortable, so I guess we’re even.”
Guy: < Silent. Shits self. >
So it’s safe to say Eric and I have comparable social skills.
The unfortunate thing is that I know the guy meant no harm, and yeah, dude, OF COURSE I’m making you nervous. You think this situation doesn’t make ME nervous every time I look in the mirror?!
The fact that I am not straight up face-planting every time I stand is truly defying the laws of physics (I assume. Can’t actually quote any laws of physics.)
But sorry, man, I’m in the home stretch here and the hormones win. Between my rapidly expanding frontal load and a preexisting discomfort with strangers talking to/looking at/being near me, I’m in no mood. If my rascal pouch makes you nervous, that’s fine, but keep it to your damn self.
So yeah I’d say we have about one year in this building before I make so many enemies that it’s simply too uncomfortable to stay. Took me about two years in the old place, but pregnancy is going to speed up this timeline a bit.
But that’s perfectly fine– since college, I’ve established a pattern of living in a place only JUST long enough to serve my needs and then moving out right before EVERYONE writes me off as the unfriendly, awkward weirdo-tenant, and it’s totally worked out for me so far.
Meanwhile, as I type this, Eric is enthusiastically shaking hands and exchanging “good-to-meet-ya!” pleasantries with yet another building occupant.
Shit. We can never move.
As I’m leaving an hour-long tutoring session…
Kid (to her mom): “Mom, you always say I have to take those off (points to nape of my neck) but Miss Emily didn’t!!”
Me (confused): “Wait, what?”
Parent: “Something tells me Miss Emily did not know it was there. And I was going to try to let her leave without embarrassing her, but I guess that’s not happening now.” (opens drawer, grabs scissors, cuts this off my sweater and hands it to me):
At my bachelorette party, my friends had Eric record answers to a bunch of questions, which I also had to answer, then we checked to see if our answers matched up.
First question: WHAT IS YOUR “PET NAME” FOR ERIC?
Me: “Oh, well. I usually just call him ‘Babe,’ but I also sometimes refer to him as my Corgi. My little Corgi. [confused friends faces] You know, because he’s really excitable and has short little legs!”
Eric (on video) “Just ‘Babe.'”
“Oh my god, have so much fun [at your bachelorette party] tonight! At my bachelorette party I got so drunk, there were MULTIPLE strippers, and there are just these ridiculous photos of me hanging off of stripper poles and, like, penises EVERYWHERE.”
— Parent of former student, just now on the street, while holding her 5-year-old daughter’s hand.
I get into the elevator with my headphones on, reading an email on my phone. An older man gets into the elevator with me. After a few seconds riding in silence…
Man: “So, I hear you like sauvignon blanc?”
Me (pulling out my headphones): “I’m sorry, what was that?”
Man: “You like sauvignon blanc. Especially from New Zealand.”
Me (nervously laughing): “That is correct…”
Man: “David [who I assume is another neighbor] spoke with your husband-to-be. Nice guy! Eric, right?
Me: “That’s right…”
Man: “And you’re getting married this summer, congratulations!”
Me: “Thank you so much! We’re pretty excited.”
Man: “But yeah, you two should join us for our wine parties. David and I are both big collectors.”
Me: “Yes, that would be lovely! We’re great at drinking wine!”
Man (as we reach lobby): “Ok great, so now we know each other. We don’t have to be silent on our phones in the elevator and hallways. We can have a conversation when we see each other. Isn’t that nice?”
Me (laughing): “You know what? It really is nice!”
This is literally my worst nightmare.
That time I got off the elevator, tried opening my apartment door, started cursing at the key/kicking the door when it wouldn’t open, then almost fell over when, while mid-kick, a man opened the door and angrily asked “MAY I HELP YOU?!”
Not my apartment.
Got off on the wrong floor.
I got a referral for a wedding hair stylist and gave her a call…
Stylist: “So tell me a little about yourself.”
Me: “I am a sweaty, frizzy-haired Jew. I have lots of anxiety. I feel prettiest when I wear my hair down, but, due to my aforementioned sweat problem, that might not be an option for the wedding. But the idea of wearing my hair up is giving me anxiety, because I never wear my hair up for special occasions. And now I’m starting to sweat just thinking about it.”
Stylist: (laughs) “Ok…”
Me: “Sorry, was that not the information you were looking for?”
Stylist: “Well most people start by telling me their name.”