Coffee Rhetoric: Pedestrian Tales: You Don't Measure Up Sir

April 23, 2011

Pedestrian Tales: You Don't Measure Up Sir

As often as I find myself in interesting and sometimes compromising situations on the bus (some man gave me his number the other day, and said he "sees" me "a lot" downtown and insisted we should have lunch. Even though I disagreed, I feigned like I was entering his number in my phone anyway) or in a taxi (I've been driven around by some colorful and seemingly unstable Yellow Cab drivers)- I often stumble into random and somewhat awkward scenarios while walking the streets and minding my own business. This past week was no different. I usually roll my eyes behind my of dark shades, purse my lips irritatingly, and ignore the foolatry I'm being propositioned or antagonized with and keep pushing forward or I cross the street and simply  re-route my progress. Every now and again however, I like to deviate from my usual mask of disdain and loathing for much of man-kind and play along... sort of like I did in this Pedestrian Tale... 
It was a particularly windy spring day, late afternoon... post-work rush hour as I took quick, hard-stomping strides towards Webster Bank at City Place, anxious to get some cash so I could hit up the noodle bar at The Market at Hartford 21. A lanky, not up to par, younger looking man appeared out of nowhere, and started walking alongside me. "I like your bag. That's nice," he said, side-eyeing me up and down. "Yup, thanks" I answered dryly. I walked at a clip and he managed to keep pace. I was almost at the bank and wanted him to veer off and leave me the hell alone. "I like your shades too... they fit nicely on your face," he continued.  "Umm-hmm" I said aloofly. 
"Yeah, you look really nice. So do you have a man or anything?" He asked promptly. Suddenly, I stopped walking (plus I'd arrived at the door of Webster Bank's enclosed ATM machine).  
"Yes." I answered with a polite smile. "I'm practically married!" 
"What do you mean, practically married?" He needed to know.  
"I live with my paramour." 
"Oh. You faithful? How old are you?" he asked.
"I've no reason not to be. He pays the rent and all of the utilities, bills, cable. He takes me on all expense paid trips and dinners, plus he does most of the cooking. I'd hate to mess that up. Plus I'm 45. Probably way too old for you."  (Lies!)
He blinked at me. "Um, I promise you it'll be worth it, to get to know me. You're just my type too. You look like you're 28-years-old." He pressed.   
I surveyed his low slung, too big for his frame jeans and unkempt cornrows from behind my shades and asked "Would you be willing to inherit all of those expenses?" He thought about it for a second, then said, "Oh. Okay then. It was nice meeting you."
I nodded in a self-satisfied WINNING on tiger's blood sort of way, because in my past experiences dealing with unwanted suitors, lying about being "taken" left them undaunted. 
He turned to leave me be, but not before asking, "So, um... you got any sisters?" ...