She’s attempting to explain something she doesn’t understand. Her rhetoric is redundant, filled with repeated key words, their meanings only partially recognized. The same points are explained more than once, a different technique each time to overcomplicate and confuse. She’s like a small child explaining politics. The simplest ideas are convoluted.
I try not to laugh. It would offend her, though she’d have only a small idea what caused the outburst. Her discussion is so easy to follow, and yet so off-base, that I grow intensely bored. I start to list off things I need to do around the house before the weekend, drift off to thoughts of the weekend, and generally stop listening.
I won’t miss anything. I’ve heard the conversation before. Her stories are ill-timed and irrelevant, but played up as hilarious. Courtesy laughs abound. Her laugh is fake, loud, and cackling, unless in response to a comment of her own. So much of her worth is wrapped in what she has or wears and how she looks that most comments are directed accordingly.
Her materialism pales in comparison to her passive aggressiveness. Her suggestions and comments are so saturated with it, that if it were tactile, she’d be wading in a puddle of it. I imagine it as a maroon-black goo, sticking to her bargain-shopper skirts and dripping down the heels of shoes she never needed. She bends only to equals or superiors in the office; even then, only after careful deliberation and compromises heavily in her favor.
When diverted, attention is directed back at her within moments. Her cheesy, false smile beams from ear to ear in response to suggestions that will eventually be ignored—if listened to at all. There is only a thin sheen of interest over vacuous, dead eyes. Earlier today, in an cube that was not her own, she yelled with glee upon finding treats that everyone else had already found. I can only imagine the reaction of the person on the other side of the line on the phone in the cube dweller’s hand.
Her lack of consideration will never be mentioned. If it is, it will be dismissed with a series of excuses and insincere apologies.
How has she avoided social norms for so long? What does she think about? She has to have some substance beyond appearances. Is it a series of defense mechanisms? Does she think this over-maintained, expensively-clothed, hollow-laughing persona is appealing? Are her relationships outside of work the same as within? Are they just a layer of filth caked to the sides of an empty fifty-five gallon drum? Would a blow to her aesthetic appeal shatter her?
She appears to have good intentions, but her control renders them insignificant. Her chosen path in life is one of communication, yet she lacks basic skills of interaction. To get to the point of near middle age, with social skills rivaling a senior in high school, is practically impossible. What’s beneath the detached grin and glass eyes? There must be more. No one can live as a porcelain doll.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
billboard
She’s as beautiful as she’ll ever be. She is fit, active, and young. Her legs are smooth and toned, her lips are full, her hair is still flexible and smooth, and her breasts have yet to feel the molesting hands of gravity. Her boyfriend either worships her or hates her. She sits a couple rows behind me, listening to her iPod and reading her book. Unlike gorgeous celebrities, she is attainable, but I’m not interested.
Her seduction is naive and superficial. Instead of seeking a man’s respect she wants his affection and attention. She layers her face in cosmetics, ritualistically manipulates her hair, and displays her skin in excess to prove her attractiveness. None of these things matter. She uses bold exposure instead of insightful conversation to entice the opposite sex. She’s self-conscious, awkward, and unsure.
Soon her metabolism will slow and pockets of weight will develop. Wrinkles will appear, and her curves will sag, but she’ll become more attractive. She will learn what she wants, what she deserves, and how she can get it. Eventually the make-up may enhance her appearance, rather than fog it. Clothes she buys will make her look and feel sexy, rather than showing off as much as possible. Most of all she will learn that a man’s attention and the opinions of others shouldn’t govern her habits.
Or, as is the case far too often, she won’t. She’ll remain socially immature and find affirmation only in the shallow. She’ll stress of her outer appearance and never develop a sense of self. She will date unappreciative men and grow lonely or pathetic. She will pass onto her children the same superficial values. She’ll read Cosmopolitan to learn how to please a man, or better her life, from articles written by men. She’ll desire the ogling eyes of men as proof that she’s more attractive than she feels. She will perpetuate the patriarchal assumptions.
It’s too early to tell. Her brains could be betrayed by the flaunting of her temporary body. Her low-cut tank top and low-rise jeans could be material means to gain attention for an insecure child. I don’t have the patience or attention span to find out. For now she is just an audacious billboard for a product I don’t want on the traffic-jammed interstate that is my life. Eye-catching, but barely worth a second glance.
Her seduction is naive and superficial. Instead of seeking a man’s respect she wants his affection and attention. She layers her face in cosmetics, ritualistically manipulates her hair, and displays her skin in excess to prove her attractiveness. None of these things matter. She uses bold exposure instead of insightful conversation to entice the opposite sex. She’s self-conscious, awkward, and unsure.
Soon her metabolism will slow and pockets of weight will develop. Wrinkles will appear, and her curves will sag, but she’ll become more attractive. She will learn what she wants, what she deserves, and how she can get it. Eventually the make-up may enhance her appearance, rather than fog it. Clothes she buys will make her look and feel sexy, rather than showing off as much as possible. Most of all she will learn that a man’s attention and the opinions of others shouldn’t govern her habits.
Or, as is the case far too often, she won’t. She’ll remain socially immature and find affirmation only in the shallow. She’ll stress of her outer appearance and never develop a sense of self. She will date unappreciative men and grow lonely or pathetic. She will pass onto her children the same superficial values. She’ll read Cosmopolitan to learn how to please a man, or better her life, from articles written by men. She’ll desire the ogling eyes of men as proof that she’s more attractive than she feels. She will perpetuate the patriarchal assumptions.
It’s too early to tell. Her brains could be betrayed by the flaunting of her temporary body. Her low-cut tank top and low-rise jeans could be material means to gain attention for an insecure child. I don’t have the patience or attention span to find out. For now she is just an audacious billboard for a product I don’t want on the traffic-jammed interstate that is my life. Eye-catching, but barely worth a second glance.
Monday, October 8, 2007
onions
If I were to create a hell for myself, it would be somewhat similar to this. I’m sometimes in the mood for places like this, but not tonight. I have too much on my mind and too many other things I’d rather be doing. The crowd isn’t bad, at least not compared to the last few times I’ve been here. This doesn’t mean they’re not bumping and rubbing against me as we make our way to the side bar.
He’s standing near the wall, off to the corner, with the top two buttons open to reveal his plush chest hair. He sips on his drink, but his eyes dart to all corners. As a group of drink-saturated women walk by, his eyes scan them individually from toes to shoulders. He follows them, staring at the ass of the last one, until they reach the line for the bathroom. He turns his head and drops his head to the short skirt of another woman standing with her boyfriend. It’s obvious no one around him came with him or is even talking to him.
She’s heavy-set, probably about two hundred pounds packed on to a one hundred twenty pound frame. She’s surrounded at her table by a half dozen other ladies, all more attractive and a couple genuinely beautiful. She laughs louder, talks—or, because of the proximity to the dance floor, yells—more, and all of her gestures are exaggerated. She looks over to her left where a man, about six foot and handsome, is watching the dance floor every couple minutes. Quick glances that only her friends would see, but obvious enough that she’s got her sights set on the unattainable.
The man she’s gawking at takes no notice of her. He doesn’t pay attention to even the mildly attractive. He instead watches intently the most beautiful girls dancing. He bobs his head with the music and drinks occasionally, never taking his eyes off dancers. His face contorts to a wince when an ugly woman walks by.
The three of them are against the bar, forming a small semi-circle. The one in the middle sits on a stool drinking a Miller Lite, the one on his left drinking a clear drink, and the one to his right drinking a light brown one. They point women and men out to one another and, though I can’t hear them, make hilarious comments. When a particularly hot group of women walk by their corner of the bar—suspiciously close to the women’s restroom—they stare in awe.
We move over to a table. I can’t hear any of the conversation around me without straining. My attention wanders to a group of girls at the table just next to ours. It’s a pretty large group. They were dancing in their chairs and drinking fairly quickly, as if lubing their inhibitions to the point of moving their act to where so many others were gyrating.
Across from them is a guy long, curly, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. He’s with a group of about seven people, but he keeps himself out of the conversations. His eyes, instead, are surveying the rest of the bar incessantly. He contorts himself slightly. He puts one leg up on the chair and leans forward, he reaches back and leans on the railing to the ramp beside him, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest leaning back. It’s like a peacock spreading broken, brown, and diseased feathers.
I looked over from Ponytail and watched the girl at the beer trough strut. Her hair is fried and dyed and sticking out from her head in all directions. She is big busted, but wore a shirt too small to display more cleavage than at all necessary. She pulled up her shirt and wore low-rise jeans to show off her obsessively maintained midriff. She leaned too far forward when there were men around looking for beers. When the line wained she swayed and thrust her hips with the music. If a guy caught her eye she increased her efforts.
The desperation and pretension is palpable. Drowning their self-doubt and numbing their nerves with drink while propping themselves up. I try to keep my attention our table, but I can’t ignore the pathetic mating dance. Too many people deluding themselves.
We moved down to the dance floor. I stood next to an entrance. The man next to me is gawking at those around him. A homely girl presses up against one of our group and is politely denied. Sweat saturates the air. Gawker turns to me and says, “What are we waiting for anyway. It’s all a bunch of easy bitches anyway.” He walks quickly past me and away from the dancing. I need to get out of here. I’m exhausted.
He’s standing near the wall, off to the corner, with the top two buttons open to reveal his plush chest hair. He sips on his drink, but his eyes dart to all corners. As a group of drink-saturated women walk by, his eyes scan them individually from toes to shoulders. He follows them, staring at the ass of the last one, until they reach the line for the bathroom. He turns his head and drops his head to the short skirt of another woman standing with her boyfriend. It’s obvious no one around him came with him or is even talking to him.
She’s heavy-set, probably about two hundred pounds packed on to a one hundred twenty pound frame. She’s surrounded at her table by a half dozen other ladies, all more attractive and a couple genuinely beautiful. She laughs louder, talks—or, because of the proximity to the dance floor, yells—more, and all of her gestures are exaggerated. She looks over to her left where a man, about six foot and handsome, is watching the dance floor every couple minutes. Quick glances that only her friends would see, but obvious enough that she’s got her sights set on the unattainable.
The man she’s gawking at takes no notice of her. He doesn’t pay attention to even the mildly attractive. He instead watches intently the most beautiful girls dancing. He bobs his head with the music and drinks occasionally, never taking his eyes off dancers. His face contorts to a wince when an ugly woman walks by.
The three of them are against the bar, forming a small semi-circle. The one in the middle sits on a stool drinking a Miller Lite, the one on his left drinking a clear drink, and the one to his right drinking a light brown one. They point women and men out to one another and, though I can’t hear them, make hilarious comments. When a particularly hot group of women walk by their corner of the bar—suspiciously close to the women’s restroom—they stare in awe.
We move over to a table. I can’t hear any of the conversation around me without straining. My attention wanders to a group of girls at the table just next to ours. It’s a pretty large group. They were dancing in their chairs and drinking fairly quickly, as if lubing their inhibitions to the point of moving their act to where so many others were gyrating.
Across from them is a guy long, curly, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. He’s with a group of about seven people, but he keeps himself out of the conversations. His eyes, instead, are surveying the rest of the bar incessantly. He contorts himself slightly. He puts one leg up on the chair and leans forward, he reaches back and leans on the railing to the ramp beside him, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest leaning back. It’s like a peacock spreading broken, brown, and diseased feathers.
I looked over from Ponytail and watched the girl at the beer trough strut. Her hair is fried and dyed and sticking out from her head in all directions. She is big busted, but wore a shirt too small to display more cleavage than at all necessary. She pulled up her shirt and wore low-rise jeans to show off her obsessively maintained midriff. She leaned too far forward when there were men around looking for beers. When the line wained she swayed and thrust her hips with the music. If a guy caught her eye she increased her efforts.
The desperation and pretension is palpable. Drowning their self-doubt and numbing their nerves with drink while propping themselves up. I try to keep my attention our table, but I can’t ignore the pathetic mating dance. Too many people deluding themselves.
We moved down to the dance floor. I stood next to an entrance. The man next to me is gawking at those around him. A homely girl presses up against one of our group and is politely denied. Sweat saturates the air. Gawker turns to me and says, “What are we waiting for anyway. It’s all a bunch of easy bitches anyway.” He walks quickly past me and away from the dancing. I need to get out of here. I’m exhausted.
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