Unwanted Attention

In high school, I worked at a research laboratory. One day, perhaps almost at random, K.C. told me that gay men would find me attractive. He then said that I should take it as a compliment. I am unsure as to what K.C. was trying to tell me. Was he gay? Was A.T., his fiancee, just a beard? I lost touch with them after I left for college, and still don't know what he was trying to say.

***

A lot of men can't read social cues, or are stubborn. Witness the last time you've been in a bar, a guy keeps talking to some woman at the bar looking in the opposite direction, her body closed off, looking everywhere but at him. Yet, he still keeps talking because she accepted the drink he bought her. You wonder why he can't realize what's going wrong, if he figures that if he tries long enough, something good will happen.

I don't get hit on much. When it does happen, I usually don't even recognize it, because it's such a rare occasion. Even if I do recognize it, it's a welcome surprise. I want it to keep going, and I have almost never been the woman looking away, until today.

***

Fast forward to the grocery store. I was about to buy some groceries, when I noticed a plate of baked goods by the bakery entrance. Having never successfully shed my obsession with taking free food when offered (thank you college), I figured that I would grab a snack and go straight to the checkout. Very straightforward.

When I grabbed a piece, the store employee gave his spiel for me to buy more food. I stood there politely and nodded my head as he continued talking. He was an older gentleman, starved for attention based on the fact that he wouldn't stop talking, and wore a plain gold band on his right ring finger, beneath the latex glove (he was serving food, after all). Short cropped hair, thinning. Bit of a paunch. Perfectly average.

Now, if I had to remind you, I don't like talking to strangers. I still think that I do need to stretch my boundaries, so I have decided that if strangers engage me, I will try to engage them back. If nothing else, it makes for a mildly interesting story. Also, I'd just gotten a haircut, had gelled hair, and a few days worth of stubble. Why do I mention that? When I looked in the mirror, it made me look just young and scruffy enough to pass for a college aged student. The importance of this detail will come a little later.

For whatever reason, whether it's a vibe I give off, or the strangers that feel comfortable engaging me, a fair amount of people have no problem with telling me their life stories. He started talking about his next door neighbors, and then a strange exchange:

Store Baker: So, do you have any kids?
K.T.: No.
S.B.: Oh. So, how old are you?
K.T.: Twenty-nine.
S.B.: Really? I thought you were eighteen or nineteen.
K.T.: Thank you. (But I thought to myself, why in blue heaven would you ask if I had kids? The answer became obvious in hindsight.)
S.B.: You know, you are gorgeous.
K.T.: Oh, uh, thanks.
S.B.: Twenty-nine. Amazing.
K.T.: Yeah, I've always looked young.

Needless to say, my gay-dar was going off the charts. Only much later did I realize that he was trying to ascertain my sexual orientation by inquiring about the kids. He then said that the women must be falling all over me. I did not realize this was further him trying to figure out which team I batted for. He then asked if I had a girlfriend, and I hemmed and hawed for a second, because I am not good at lying once I am thrown off. Looking back, this probably encouraged him more than anything.

I made up a story and he was very excited, repeating that women would be crazy not to be my girlfriend. This started to make me want to back away, but I couldn't figure out a good way to run without being outright rude. I didn't grow up a pretty female. I've not been in that many situations where a guy was hitting on me and I didn't want to be hit on; as I recall, it's only happened two or three times in my life. I don't have that skill set, to make a graceful exit. Every time I mentioned the grocery basket, he kept talking, kept telling me about his life.

Turns out he bakes as a side job. Brownies and what not. Gave me his business card, kept talking about all the places where he delivered, then asked me where I lived. I told him the truth, and he mentioned how his route took him past there.

Anonymous ladies, on the rare few occasions that I have approached you and attempted to hit on you, and you were trying to make it obvious you did not want to talk to me, and I couldn't pick up on your cues, please let me apologize. I know it doesn't make it any better, but I now understand what you felt like, I respect you all as actual people, and thank you for trying to be polite and respectful and spare my feelings. I don't know how you do it.

You know how when you corner a wild animal, it bares its teeth? I started smiling, although I felt like it was the fake artifice resembling a smile, more just an awkward move which I had hoped would repel him. No, he said I had a wonderful smile, and lovely dimples. At this point, he leaned in and just told me straight out that he was gay. I told him there was nothing wrong with that. Of course, this stranger giving away baked goods just told me that he was gay. What was I supposed to do, drop the basket, curse at him, and run? No, at the time, I figured that he was lonely and looking for attention. I was correct, just not in the matter of degree.

Bolstered by my statement, he then told me that there was something about Asians and Hispanics he loved. Yes, their black hair. He then told me that from a distance, I looked Hispanic, but up close, he saw I was Asian.

Ladies, from now on, I'm just going to say outright "Hi, I'm [K.T.]. Would you like to go on a date and get to know each other better? No? Well, thank you for your time." And then I am going to walk away and not keep trying.

It kept getting worse. The more nervous I got, the more I bared my teeth, which only led him to make more comments about my smile. I could feel myself blush, so I mentioned that, unable to think of anything else to say. He took this as an extraordinarily good sign. I mentioned that I had to go for the fifteenth time or so, and he started mentioning that his contact information was on his card, and that I should come on over. Maybe I could help him with his computer (why did I mention that I worked with computers?). He also told me that he lived with his friend (which explained the ring). Did this mean they had an open relationship? I'm not sure I want to find out. He also talked about the brownies that he baked. At this point, I got a very weird, very strong To Catch a Predator vibe. He thought I was eighteen or nineteen, pretty close to seventeen, and was inviting me to his house to play with his computer and eat brownies.

I told him I'd do my best, and that I had to really go (which was true, because I'd been holding the basket so long my fingers went long. I didn't want to set it down because that would have really screwed me over). In an extremely stilted motion, he then leant over and placed his left hand on my shoulder, let it linger there a little longer than he should have. He also told me his work schedule, and when he was free. I just nodded and kept walking. One of the last things he mentioned was that I was going to tell everyone I was talking to a gay man today. The other was that he wasn't going to forget my name. (Yeah, I gave him my real name, instead of my go-to alias.)

This marks the second time someone has hit on me in that grocery store, and the second time I didn't realize it until later. Thankfully, the first time was a female. This also makes me a tease twice, and encourages me that I can attract the older homosexual baker demographic if need be. To both of you, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to lead you on or not pick up on the cues, I just haven't been in that situation that often. I am so sorry.

Not that I approve of the normal female response, but I definitely understand it much better. You're in a public forum, and a random stranger starts talking. You were raised to be polite, you don't want to cause a scene, so you stop and listen. You figure that it's just going to be a quick conversation, and it will pass quickly. Then it starts getting really awkward, someone you have no interest in is viewing you almost as a piece of meat instead of an actual human. They want to do things to you, you know what they want to do to you, but you don't have a say in turning them away. At the same time, it's unwanted attention, but they're not trying to be jackasses, and it's flattering in a weird way. So you try to be nice, try to extricate yourself, drop subtle hints so as not to hurt them, and they misinterpret that as interest. You try stronger and stronger hints, and it's not taking, until finally you just have to be clear and walk away. So be it if they get hurt, you didn't ask to talk to them. I will definitely keep this in mind the next time I talk to a stranger, male or female (these days, apparently you can't tell who's interested in you).

So, let's recap today's events: Woke up, did laundry, cleaned apartment, got lunch, got haircut, got hit on by old man, went for run, cleaned apartment further, edited novel. Which one of these is not like the others?

I really liked that store. I may now have to find a new go-to store.

Remaindered Information

Found some old posts I never published, so we're going to knock them out of the way.

***

I used to be obsessed with office supplies. Still have a storage cube in the corner of my apartment filled with pens, binder clips, key rings, batteries, folders, legal pads, heaven knows what else. I touch it maybe once every three to four months, usually for a pen. Note that I have pens everywhere. Sometimes I just feel the urge to get up and walk over to it. I could probably trash, mulch, or place into storage most of it, seeing as how it's become yet another piece of dead weight in my life. Still, there's something about the order in it, having office supplies, that is reassuring.

This contrasts with my natural packrat tendencies, and my general lack of ordering in my apartment. If you look at my desk, either in the office or at home, you'd be surprised at how much crap I keep on a desk, and how little of it I actually use. The toy factor is pretty high, as is the Boy Scout motto always whispering in the back of my minds: "Be Prepared." Life is random, chaos rules, etc. We cannot predict what may come. All we can do is make preparations and await the unknown. Is it to level of obsession? Probably not, but I feel very deeply the need to save everything, on the off chance that it comes in handy.

It represents a different type of order to me, not the kind that actually has everything in its own place, but that everything has a solution. Yes, I know intimately that insoluble problems taunt humanity on the large scale, and me on the small scale. Still, with enough resources, I can combat the disorder of a problem, I can fix it. Through the wild and crazy mess shall emerge a neat and ordered solution. It is much the reason Tetris appeals to me. You cannot beat Tetris, you can only hold back the disorder for a time, until it overwhelms you. But, oh, how beautiful the empty screen when you complete line after line.

One of my new idle obsessions is organizing and running a double-elimination tournament bracket. Likely, we would have to organize it for Street Fighter IV, as the fighting game "scene" is established and widespread and there have been many prior efforts to run tournaments, many of which ended successfully. It would be fun to watch players of different skills and perspectives come together to beat each other. However, even more fundamentally, from a pool of players, we create a mechanism through which they expose themselves, until we are left with one, the best today.

The other, strange as it sounds, is to study databases, maybe get some certification in database administration. Not that I ever thought about it much before, but the concept of a database appeals to me on some primal level. Everything in its place, a place for everything, a proper database keeps information organized. Further, you can delve into it and retrieve said information. A brilliant concept, and really, one that, had you told me about it earlier on in my life, I would've tried to pursue it as a living.

You would think that it's only information that I like ordered, but think again. I tell a story, it jumps all over the place. It follows no pattern up close, as the details and descriptions jump from place to place. If anything, sometimes it reads like a crack addict was observing the world. There is a broad order, but sometimes, you just need stuff out of place, because you're telling a story. Narrative perfection and chronological order don't necessarily track with each other. If I did write with perfect order, it would probably read a little robotic, a little artificial.

***

I received a call from a private/blocked number, which freaks me out because you need to have taken steps to purposely block your incoming number. Even if I see a number that I don't recognize, it's fine, because I can still answer with at least some idea that there's a person on the other side. Here, I got a little worried.

Turned out it was the fraud department for my credit card company, asking me about several suspicious purchases made in the United Kingdom and California. The nice lady answered my bewildered questions, keeping a calm voice and answer my questions no matter how redundant or ridiculous they were. At least I am not being charged, but I do need to cancel the card, and will be without a functioning card for a few days. This should make my flight check-in interesting next week.

What got me was that several charges were placed with non-profit organizations and charitable organizations. I do not remember what they were called, only that they were part of the list of charges made. In addition, small amounts, less than ten dollars, were charged to each, but the charges were made.

In effect, I got ripped off by a modern day Robin Hood and his band of merry hackers.

What most took the sting out of this was that I am not going to be charged for the roughly two thousand dollars. However, I take some miniscule solace from the fact that they tried to donate to charity. Granted, due to the small amounts, it seems that they were merely testing the waters, seeing what they could get away with as a small test before moving on to bigger and better. Does this make them better people? Probably not, but it's a start. Maybe if they hadn't spent more than a thousand dollars with travel companies and the like, I would be more sympathetic.

***

I told R.Y. in a sleep-deprivation-induced haze that "My life is all about running. I am constantly running away from something, running towards something, or just literally running." I suppose to some extent, this applies to all of us, though his response was "Why don't you just wait for once?"

Inaction too often feels like the sin of omission to me. I cannot entirely content myself with just waiting, even though patience constitutes a virtue which I cannot live my life without. More often, I feel the need to flip a pen, sway to and fro, do something, anything, to get past the moment.

Even right now, I am staying awake because I cannot stand the thought of going to bed, only to wake up a scant few hours later. If I burn myself out for long enough, I will have no choice but to sleep longer in order to get through a few sleep cycles. At the same time, I could just stop this generalized worry, and let myself sleep.

That I am running implies that I am not content with the given situation. However, that I am running also raises the question whether or not I will stop running once I find contentment. Then that raises the question of whether or not I will know what contentment is once I find it, and even more, have I already found contentment, and passed it up?

Running and waiting exist in a perpetual tension. One is concerned with striking forward as you can, pushing through it all to get to point B. One is concerned with being where you are. (Is it obvious that I'm having trouble staying up and being coherent? I have no idea what the hell I'm trying to write about now, or what I'm trying to say.)