I’ve been trying to type this up for a while, and it’s only now that the pain in my wrists and hands is beginning to subside. I spent way too many hours last night mashing the buttons on my GameCube controller finishing Viewtiful Joe 2 (in extremely soft volume, for those in the audience who might have an issue with it). The game, though fun, can be hard at points, is very short, and doesn’t really add any value over the original title. But that’s not a bad thing, since the original title was awesome.
Anyway, I was talking to my mum for quite a while yesterday, and as seems to be the norm now, she brought up the news of yet another one of my friends getting married. Now it’s odd that she knows this information and passes it onto me rather than the other way around, but that’s just an indication of how close I am to these “friends”.
As your spidey sense is warning you, I could break out into a trite rant about how matter-of-factly she treats this news for some people, and how up-in-arms she gets when it comes to certain other people. But that’s way overdone, and I am not going anywhere near there.
My beef with all of this is far more frivolous. To set the stage, the prettiest women I know are married, or nearly there. Now this makes it awkward when I try to compliment them on whatever. You know, when they walk by in a cutely accessorized maroon blouse, it’s natural to want to let them know how gorgeous they/it look. It used to be fine before, but now, it’s suddenly hard to do without appearing like the random creepy guy who’s (checking them out and) making such observations.
This problem doesn’t seem to exist with pretty women who aren’t married (or nearly there). And, just to remind the audience that deep down we’re all superficial jerks, this is a non-issue for non-pretty women. As much as I pride myself at being cold and calculating, I can be quite frank when it comes to saying what’s on my mind. I don’t like to have to analyze it some more just because their life-partnership scene has recently changed.
Well that, in a nutshell, was issue number 1 for the day.
Moving along, it is a clear and undisputed fact that I am a geek. A geek who can easily be lost in his own little imaginary world when he’s thinking about something, and not really be aware of his surroundings or what he’s actually doing in it. Be it how our schedules align or whatever, I keep running into this one woman I don’t know when I’m lost in my own world—talking to myself and literally moving my hands in front of my face like I’m writing in thin air or whatever—who’s clearly amused by what she sees.
I mean, every single time this has happened and I sort of break out of a trance—after figuring something out or whatever—I look up to see her sitting a few feet away, observing while stifling a giggle. I’ve often contemplated the prospect of letting her know I can be somewhat normal, and there are times when I am not convincing myself of something. But then I’d be the quirky guy who’s worried about how weird he looks doing something stupid in front of attractive strangers.
Women are hard to read. If this were a man, I could have easily differentiated between an “oh, look at his cute little quirks” laugh and a “hah, look at that weirdo” laugh. It would be easier still because one of these instances would involve finger pointing, sand-onto-face kicking and someone crying. Most probably me.
And for our final issue, number 3 is it?, we turn to yet another woman I keep running into. This time, I am sure I know her from somewhere (as she does me), but I can’t quite put my finger on where. You know, when you’re looking at someone, the duration and nature of the eye-contact can give you a fairly decent idea as to where you stand? It’s something like that. I am sure she’s thinking along similar lines because you can see a sort of thought-induced strain and a half-attempt at tentative smile.
But then there’s the issue of a sort of B-movie pick-up line awkwardness associated with just walking up to her and asking her where I know her from. Things oughtn’t to be this complicated.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to doting over another batch of cookies in the oven.