Earlier
today I walked past an older lady on the street. She was meandering along slowly, pushing her
trolley, and appearing to be generally of sound mind and constitution. A few steps after passing her I became
suddenly incensed at my hair flying into my eyes. I stopped, threw my head back to make a pony
tail, and began sliding the elastic from my wrist into my hair.
It
was at this point, head tossed back and staring in concentration at the sky,
that I heard the muttering. My
headphones in, I thought nothing of it and continued.
‘Excuse
me!’ It was the lady. She must have been trying to get my attention
for a while, as by the time I turned around she was glaring at me, positively
pissed. I thought she would ask for
money. Instead she began to huff and
puff before producing the following nugget:
‘Look,
we’ve all got our problems, our worries.
We’ve all got our cross to bear.’
A regular footpath philosopher! ‘And
I don’t mean to disrespect you. But,’
exasperation now oozing from her pours, ‘why did you DO that?’
I
wasn’t aware I had done anything. ‘Do what?’ I asked, feeling more curious than
defensive.
What
followed was a bizarre sequence of facial twitches that could best be described
as startled; confused; exhausted. She
sighed and instructed me to ‘Forget about it.’
But
I didn’t want to forget about it! I
wanted to know what I had done to incite her impassioned plea. ‘Can you just tell me what I did?’ I implored, leaning in close in case the
answer was blasphemous.
The
lady would not say. Drats!
Since
the exchange I have been methodically running over my actions immediately
preceding the incident, and have come up with this: Walked.
Walked. Tied up hair. The hair!
Was it the hair? Was she
personally offended by the shaved-ness of one side of my scalp? It will haunt me!
I
called Tom to request input. What could
it have been?
‘It’s
just you!’ He offered emphatically.
This
to you may seem insensitive, but you do not know the back story. You see, for some reason, random people of Melbourne
There
is more. At the pub once a man (sane but
drunk) sat staring at me with such fury that our entire group decided to
relocate. On the way out (I had no
choice but to file past him), he produced a seething tirade about my stupidity;
‘You think you’re smarter than me! Well
you’re fucking not you stupid whore! I
am so much smarter than you could ever dream of being!’
Ok.
I
was on the tram and it happened. Leaving
a restaurant. At a pub once a man gave
me a dirty look before intentionally sticking out his foot to try to trip me. Not one of these times had I knowingly
glanced, let alone made eye contact with, my haters.
It’s
happened so many times that Tom has become hyper-defensive. If any random person so much as opens their
mouth in my direction, he springs into action.
‘Don’t even start! Just leave her
alone and sort your own issues out!’
This sounds far fetched but sadly it’s legit.
Tom’s
belief is that people are intimidated by my intelligence. Which is extremely flattering, but highly
unlikely, as many of the people who’ve attacked me haven’t heard me speak, let
alone corresponded with me sufficiently to establish that. I honestly have no theory. Aside from the wishy washy concept that people
don’t like the way I look at them. But
surely bitchy resting face doesn’t warrant this level of vitriol?
So
you can see why I was so keen to draw an explanation from the incensed older
lady. Why, cruel world? Why do you taunt me so?
