Hanging Out on the Street

Occasionally, in spite of my socially toxic mix of shyness, aloofness, and oddness, I meet girls. Usually these meetings are in dark public places and alcohol is involved. I am lead to believe that sometimes people meet in other locations: grocery stores, libraries, and laundromats all seem to be places that folks smile, joke, and exchange stuff... like phone numbers and potentially, eventually, bodily fluids.

With rare exceptions (a chance laundry room meeting still reverberates in my life), that's not me. It's clubs and bars and such for me.

I think the perception of this is that one meets a certain type of person in places like this. I will admit that the perception has some grain of truth--a drunk or high woman is less likely to actually respond to me the next day, even if she seems very interested at the time we meet. With that being said, awesome people are everywhere... and meeting someone in the light of day does not guarantee sanity or responsibility.

So... you might guess what I'm going to type about.

The other day I was walking down the street in downtown Seattle. I was just off of work and walking to social engagement. The sun was shining and I was dressed in a rather dandy outfit, the crown jewel of which was a very pink blazer.

I was enjoying my walk, half-assedly playing Pokemon Go and making sure I didn't bump into anyone else.

At some point, the foot traffic had thinned and I noticed a woman talking to a guy. Even though I didn't slow down, I was able to admire her pleasant, uh, figure.(1) I don't think that I stared, but self-awareness is always a challenge for me.

Also a challenge for me? The sunglasses I was wearing. They were sort of retro and pink-tinted. And loose on my face.

I am lucky enough not to need glasses. My vision may not be 20/15 anymore, but it's still good enough to do stuff like half-assedly play Pokemon Go, not bump into other pedestrians, and not-stare at a woman's rack.

What I am not lucky enough to do is to deal with loose sunglasses without feeling self-conscious. I know it's ridiculous that I was walking down the street in a bright pink jacket and pink sunglasses but I was worried about how I looked when I pushed the glasses farther up the bridge of my nose.

As I walked, then, I glanced over at the building on my right to see my reflection--to see if the glasses looked silly enough for me to have to feel silly by nudging them up.

Much like the Fonz, I looked good ("Heyyyyy!"). Much like the Ed O of one minute before, I saw the aforementioned woman, and her well-filled-out tanktop caught my eye again. This time Tanktop was walking about six feet behind me and to my left, and I couldn't help but look at her in the glass.(2) It was a reflex in a reflection.

Unlike before, though, where she seemingly was unaware of me (and my roaming eyeballs), this time she said something.

"WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STARING AT MY TITS?!?," was not what she said, fortunately.

It was something more along the lines of, "Ahh... checking yourself out, I see."(3)

Normally I don't talk to people on the street... but that's because the people on the street who talk to ME are drunk and/or drugged up. Which I suppose is not THAT different than the folks who want to talk to me in bars and clubs. Maybe it's a matter of how recently they've showered. I dunno.

In this case, I had little choice but to reply. Tanktop and I were walking rather closely together and there was no one else in our proximity.

I looked over my left shoulder, took especial care to maintain eye contact, and replied, "Of course. I definitely wasn't checking you out."

Which wasn't mean. Maybe it was a light neg, but I had a sparkle in my as I said it.

She laughed and said, "OK, good to know."

And then she sped up to catch up with me(4) and we walked some blocks, southward.

It was a fun little conversation. Highlights/lowlights included:

• Tanktop was going somewhere (where? I didn't catch it and I didn't want to admit I didn't hear her, so I just nodded, knowingly) to get her phone. 
• She mentioned her "guy".(5)
• We talked about where we lived and that my view of the Space Needle used to be better. I made the logical "just the tip" joke. She laughed.(6) 
• She said that I should put her number in my phone. I didn't do so because I thought she was joking. And that she has a guy.(7) 
• She discussed a building we walked by, and that she used the back door once. I laughed. She stared at me for a second and then laughed, too.(8)
• We approached her destination (whatever it was) and she said, again, that I should get her number. In spite of my general lack of wits, I decided to do so this time and she said we'd have to get a drink or something.(9)
• I told her I'd text her and she said she'd get back to me when she got her hands on her phone.

OK. Cool. So I got to the social engagement and I got a drink and I was talking to a friend. I couldn't help but bring up that I'd talked to a real, live, human stranger in the middle of daylight. My friend admitted that it seemed unlikely but seemed to take me at my word.

She asked if I had texted the woman yet, and I said that I had (making a joke about how I was the guy in the pink jacket who'd been sexually harassing her on the street), but that she hadn't gotten back--so maybe it was the absent phone causing the delay, or maybe I had the number wrong, or maybe she otherwise changed her mind about responding. I wasn't too worried about it.

I did tell my friend, though, that perhaps the woman thought I was gay. I was, after all, wearing a pink jacket and pink-tinted sunglasses. She stared at me for a minute, pointed at my cheeks and their weak efforts at growing a beard (which, honestly, is simply lack of effort at shaving), and said, "She knows you're not gay. Look at your facial hair."

(Friends are awesome, huh?)

After thirty minutes or so, she txted back, "lol"-ing like a pro and saying it was unfortunate that she was not my type (see? I KNEW that was gonna happen!).(10) I responded with the question of who it was unfortunate for, and that with her sense of humor and the way she looked in her tanktop that she seemed my type.

(I'm obviously much bolder over texts.)

Our text convo went something like this:

• She apologized and complimented me. 
• I complimented her back. 
• She complimented me again.(11)
• I sent her a pic of the event I was at (which had a great rooftop view).
• She said that she should have come with me.(12)
• I told her that she was right, and that I obviously need to step up my "Talking to Random Cute Girls on the Street" game.

And this next part, loyal reader(s), is why I wrote this blog entry. I am going to reveal the actual text of the, uh, texts. Not because I want to be mean or to judge, but... well, because I want to.

Tanktop: Lol yeah i was on a just got out of jail high
Me: Ah... that explains the prison aroma I was picking up
T: Lol it wasn't anything all super crazy with accusations and it sounds worse than it really was I have a husband that's very jealous and very afraid of losing me and said that I ran him over with my car and I didn't 

Second time I've every been in jail first time was a DUI when I was 20 LOL

I just don't want you to think I'm some crazy weirdo(13)

I thought she was joking, which is why I said what I said (I wasn't close enough to smell her, for the record). But I get the sense she's not.

There's nothing wrong with a DUI, and going to jail/prison is not the end of the world. Having a jealous significant other is relatively common, I gather.

But all of those things together in a text from a person I'd met on the street a couple of hours earlier... it was enough to remind me that I don't need to go to a bar or a club to meet hot, potentially crazy women.

Epilogue

You might have noticed bolded numbers peppered throughout the main post. These are points during this experience where I wanted to document two things: (a) how interested I was in Tanktop, and (b) how I judged my changes for hanging out with her.

A few notes:

• My interest over time seems to be a combination of (a) getting a better look at her, and (b) the interest she was exhibiting in me. Typical dude, I guess.
• I probably should have said that my interest dropped at (5)... and I suppose it did, but not enough to move the needle. Typical dude.
• (10) was a mixed bag. She got back to me, but she thought I was gay. Typical chick.
• I intentionally left off (13). I asked two friends about the situation and one said, "I bet she's kinky... maybe she'll run you over with that ass" and the other said, "No. No. No. Leave her alone. Lol." I can see great wisdom in the position of each.