Katie Doyle, Girl About Town

Wednesday, Jun. 08, 2005 - 12:46 a.m.

How's this for nice? I'm standing in the cleaning aisle of Von's tonight, with a canister of Lysol cleaning wipes in the crook of one arm while I stand there surveying the floor cleaners for an appropriate product, and I finally bend over and pick up the box of Spic N Span to peruse the label when this older gentleman (probably in his mid-70's) from Spain walks up to me and tells me I should smile, what am I waiting for, to be old like him before I smile? So I smile - mostly to be polite, because I fucking HATE it when people tell me to smile, like I am some trained lap dog existing for their enjoyment - and he says I look about his son's age; how old am I? So I tell him my age, one, because I can't believe he asked, and two, because he's old, and he's all shocked and says oh, that's way too old for his son. Which I totally did not know how to react to, so I just sort of tried not to. Then he says "you're not married? why aren't you married?" and taps my ring finger where it's wrapped around the Spic N Span. So I say no, not married, and again he asks why aren't I married. I'm thinking that's really none of his business, and I really fucking hate it when people do that too, but I shrug and say I just haven't met the right person, I guess, to which he replies, no, it's because you are difficult.

I am now completely taken aback and have utterly no idea where this is going and why, so I mumble something like no, I'm not, and he says yes, you are a difficult person; that is why you are not married. This really pisses me off, but I grew up in the South, were it is a physical impossibility for anyone with even a single iota of good manners or breeding to be rude to one's elders, so like a dumbass, I just stand there and murmer no, really, I'm not a difficult person, and he cuts me off with well, why aren't you married, then? "You are......mmm......"

His voice goes up and he tilts his head back and forth, considering me, involving his entire body in the head tilting process, then waggles his hand and finishes his sentence with "medium pretty."

Yes. Medium pretty.

He then critically examines my entire form and goes on to say I have a decent body and my nose is not too big (here he passes his first two fingers up and down just above and along the length of my nose), my facial structure is fairly good...yes; I am medium pretty. He says it about 4 times, and I think he must be waiting for me to acknowledge his magnanimosity, so I say thank you (because I had no idea what else to say when pronounced "medium pretty"), and he says - and yes, I quote - "No; don't thank me. I am telling you your faults."

Okay.

That was then followed by a lecture on how I must learn not to be difficult, that I must compromise. Life is a compromise; I can not always have what I want. I need to learn to expect less, to lower my standards, and learn to settle; I can not have everything.

How fucking much lower do my standards need to be??? Those of you who know me personally know exactly what I have dealt with in my dating life, and you know that if my standards were much fucking lower, I'd be married to a toothless, unemployed, physically abusive meth dealer with a whore on the side. I so do NOT need to lower my fucking standards.

But I digress. He continues. Do I think my boyfriend wants to marry a cleaning lady (remember, I am standing in the cleaning aisle holding a box of Spic N Span and some Lysol disinfecting wipes) or a woman he can talk to and have fun with? No, I am difficult and must learn to compromise. To play tennis and go to dinner and say "okay" when I am told my faults, whether I agree or not. For half an hour, he goes on and on about learning to compromise and to settle for what I am lucky enough to have, though he himself won the lottery and is blessed with his wife, who is an engineer at a huge, wonderful company and is very important there. He is a structural engineer, which is how he was able to speak with authority and point out my faults, as he analyzes and points out faults for a living. As he lectured me in the middle of the cleaning aisle for the next half hour (yes, seriously, I am not making that up or exaggerating for effect), all I can think is why in hell is he saying all this to me, please God, make him go away. Finally he finishes and moves on, the refrain "medium pretty" echoing in my brain. Great words to hear when you have spent your life mostly invisible and no one really notices you at all anymore, anyway. It is confirmed. You are medium: mediocre, average, middle of the road, nothing to write home about, unremarkable in every way.

So yeah. You know that jones for chocolate I have? I so fed that a 3Musketeers bar when I got home.

Peace out,
Katie

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