Personal Intrusi(un)

I think I can speak for the wider non-gender specific audience when I say I’ve been told a lot of things in my life “are a privilege, not a right”. Examples that immediately come to mind are: driving, voting, enlisting, pet ownership and rhinoplasty.

But I believe many of us overlook the luxury of privacy. It’s perceived as a right by most but I say nay – this state of being is, too, a privilege.

Making a conscious effort never to assume, I think (most of) my fellow females out there can best relate to this statement. Now, I make this statement very loosely, but in my experience both in real life as well as scripted television and film, men are less inclined to give a shit if, say, another dude walks in on him getting changed/showering/watching porn.

Growing up a soccer player and a dancer taught me to be fairly lackadaisical about privacy but I also have to draw the line at some point, you know? I think it’s only fair to say I’d prefer not to have someone walk in on me eating a pint of ice cream from the container balancing on my stomach and wearing my action-getting-repellent granny panties.

I mean sure, marvel all you want at my balancing act, it’s my attire which I’m less than eager to have you bear witness to.

Fair Warning (again, I say this generally): A stranger of the female sex can sometimes cause temporary emotional disturbance/discomfort and/or confidence imbalance. The sidewalk is oft not place to force interaction with an UF (unidentified female), but is simply a moment to steal a quick glance at an outfit, purse, maybe shoes; do your best to avoid eye contact and continue on your merry way.

But(!) the bathroom, on the most surprising of other hands, does not fall under the same category as the above. Rather, it is a place where females can take refuge with one another. Remember the Seinfeld episode when Elaine runs out of toilet paper and asks her neighboring stall-mate to spare a square? Not so! I find there is a sense of unity between women in the bathroom; a place to escape forgettable first dates, creepy bar dudes, reapply and sometimes a place to snag a free mint after that pickle juice martini that didn’t stand a chance (don’t knock it ’till you try it, I promise).

I cannot say the same about dressing rooms. We wait in line with added pounds of fabric (avg 5-15 lbs) on top of our purse (avg 1-6 lbs) and usually in someones way because they JUST CAN’T WAIT(!) for that blouse you’ve been soooo inconveniently blocking for 45 seconds.

The dressing room is a sanctuary and after a painstaking 15 minute wait, we expect zero interruption besides the occasional “is anyone in here?” No ma’am, we just stuck a pair of mannequin feet in there to fuck with your head a little.

Taking refuge, I’m yes-ing and no-ing my items when I feel a brief tickle across the top of my foot. Eh, probably a dust bunny. But in the mirror I become acutely aware first by the Sketchers Shape-Ups then by the Swiffer duster in the dressing room next to me. I’m not sure how that brush could have been an accident – she had to fully extended her arm engage contact. The cleaning woman simply figured she’d cover all rooms in one fowl swoop and my dressing room was just next on the list. No need to wait for me to leave – a waste of precious time! Wanting to see how far she would go, I remained still. She continued to swiffer. Under the mirror, behind the chair, between and around my feet but very considerately never making contact again. The first time was a sloppy mistake on her end never again to be repeated.

I shall forever call her The Swiftiest of Cleaners.

Oh and since we’re on the fast track to becoming best friends, might I suggest burning those shoes? Additionally, I’m interpreting this as an I’d-like-to-clean-your-apartment-for-free olive branch.

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fall(un) angel

Girls have an affinity for buying clothes that aren’t comfortable, but they look good so, like, who cares? So I spent $150 for the jeans I can’t sit down in without looking like I’m mid-fart or $250 for those flats that cut so deep into my heels that I leave a trail of blood so I can find my way home from the bar later, it’s whatever. Pain is beauty.

It was a cloudless day in Boston, a trend that I’m totally on board with, and after numerous research studies, I’ve concluded there is a strong correlation between good weather and blowing my money on absurdities: headbands I won’t wear because they give me a 5-head, heels that collect dust because only newbies wear heels in the city or those pair of blue ribbed leggings. Just, no. This time ’round I surprised myself with a dress; both practical and appropriate, and on sale – a rare breed. Usually the only things I see on sale are the “call me, I’m easy” or “you want a piece of this?” with a slice of cake on the front t-shirts.

So it was another great day, blah blah blah reading at a cafe blah, strolling up and down Newbury St. blah blah venti Starbucks blah. My dress was lined at the bottom, restricting my stride, something I failed to notice until after the receipt said all sales, FINAL. These gams of mine are like lionesses and they do NOT like confined spaces.

Throughout the course of the day, I adjusted my walk to a shorter stride that looked sadder than a cat wearing booties but still managed to buy something I can’t afford, only  to further prove my hypothesis.

Tired from the extra walking milage I put in, I caught the campus bus that conveniently drops my off in front of my apartment. Unladylike, I hang my shopping bag around my neck and my purse across my body, hike up my floor-length dress and prepare for the 2-foot drop. We have contact, ladies and gentleman. I destrangle myself and re-channel my inner Rodeo Drive diva.

Not thinking about my acute stride impairment, I climb the three iPad-steep stairs to get into my building.

Slow motion is used for two categories: hot girls running on the beach and epic falls.

Far from sand and water, my slow-mo sequence commenced the second my foot attempted the first stair. No it’s fine, with the aid of my sunglasses, the concrete broke my fall. Seriously, I’m fine with falling. That kind of embarrassment is childs play – got past that at the ripe age of 7. I couldn’t fucking get up. Do I LOOK like I just wanna chill on my face next to my purse that just vomited its contents?

No, that stupid seam wouldn’t let me bend my knee past my ankle, forcing me to accelerate my body backwards hard enough to land cat-like on my heels but not hard enough to humpty dumpty on my ass. I shove my fallen goods into my purse with scraped hands and knees and geisha shuffle in the lobby bathroom to collect myself.

Aviators askew and a dab of blood on my chin, I’m like Brad Pitt right after a gruesome scene from Fight Club. Yes, at least 3 bakers’ dozens of students and bus drivers saw me eat concrete but aren’t we forgetting the most important thing? The unnecessary dress I bought on sale went unscathed! That’s what I call an unanticipated money well spent.

I walk in the lobby looking for my ID amongst the clutter of shit I fast balled  back in my purse when the Bahamian security guard, Matron, doesn’t miss a beat: “Just go.”