Hello dear reader(s)!
I bet you thought this was going to continue with something like, “…doesn’t mean I am happy.” Or some other quote you have probable seen on Facebook a million times about hiding how hurt poor little you are and that you are faking it. But it’s not. Because to those I say, “So you’re a drama (non-gender specific royalty member) AND a liar? Goodie for you!”
Nope, not this kind of post. And hopefully, not ever. If I write a post along those lines, please have me committed as I am obviously a danger to myself and everyone who might be unfortunate enough to read that kind of crap.
This particular post, if it pleases you people, is about what happens when a happy person ventures out into the world of unhappy and/or conceited people. And all it takes is a smile.
I’m in my late 30’s. My wife is in her early 30’s. We go out together. Generally, if I am in public, (at this stage in my recovery), she is likely close by. Sometimes, I’m just glad to be out of the house. I am usually (especially on days I am able to get out) happy to be alive and I show it. How do I show it? By smiling.
Now I don’t go around with a creepy serial-killer wide smile of all my not-so-pearly whites, but generally, the corners of my mouth are at an upturned angle and you might see the bottom and top of a tooth or two as I walk along. It is kind of a natural reaction over the simple fact that I am happy to be above ground.
You would think I am some sort of side-show freak with the reactions that I get. I smile. Gasp! Shock! Horror!
So to finish the title, it is, “Just Because I’m Smiling, Does Not Mean I Am Smiling At You.!”
Get over yourselves! I am happy with my wife. I smile. I’m not hitting on you, flirting with you, trying to come on to you. You are what, 17? 18? 87? No. Just no. Can’t a person just be happy without you thinking that someone is going to offer you candy from their no-windowed Chevy Van? Can’t a person try to spread a little cheer without you needing to run and hide behind the old lady in the motorized shopping cart. And no, old lady in the motorized shopping cart, I’m not hitting on you either.
Have women been so harassed that every friendly person becomes a creeper? I’m not trying to fondle people’s feet, I’m not asking them for hugs, I’m walking by and smiling. I don’t even turn my head as I pass.
And it isn’t just women.
The other day I was out of coffee supplies at home. Desperate, I drove to a local drive-though (Thru, for ‘Mercans) coffee shop to get a triple shot, coconut milk, no whip, white mocha. Having been a barista in a past life, I knew the ordering order of this shop and seemed to make an impression. When I got to the window I was friendly (as I always am with people who have to deal with people for a living) and made a couple jokes with the young man (and we’re talking young) who was taking my money in exchange for my coffee. As we were waiting on it, the young man begins making small-talk with me. I talk back, because I am always friendly and there isn’t anything else to do while waiting. I’m chalking up this experience to good customer service. At first…
Then he starts to talk about how him and his friends love to go out dancing. “Do you dance?”
“Oh that’s too bad, because you could totally come out with us.”
“No, I can barely get in and out of this car. And I don’t really go out. (Doing my best to draw attention to my wedding ring.) But I appreciate the offer.”
And then there was the girl who liked to molest my scalp. Let me take you back. Do the wavy flashback thing if it helps you get in the right frame of mind.
It was 2010…probably. I didn’t have the cancer BS going on, and, consequently, still had hair that needed to be cut. I was in luck. My wife’s uncle did hair and was one of the best in the business. Likely still is. Anyway, I was in need of a hair cut and he offered to give me a professional haircut without the professional price. (I mean the kind where he can do the fading without electric clippers, professional.) There was only one problem. The hair washing girl.
I’ve had my hair shampooed many, many times, but this girl (and I say girl because she was at least 10 years my junior, and acted like one) would stroke my scalp like a catholic priest would stroke an (nah, just kidding, too easy.) Then she would find whatever excuse she could to lean over me. It was awful. I told my wife I didn’t want to go back without her and made her watch so I wasn’t scalp-raped. And while my wife was watching? No scalp rape. Totally professional. As soon as my wife went outside to sit in the sun? Right back to the scalp fondling.
I finally stopped being nice to her at all, and even scowled at her. Eventually, I started getting sick and the haircuts were no more. Now, I’m not going to say there is a bright side to cancer, because I have written a million times about that bullshit belief. However, I’m not sure which was more uncomfortable, the chemo, or the scalp molestation.
So remember ladies and gentleman, friendly does not necessarily mean interested! And also remember to ask before you attempt to get sexual gratification from someone’s scalp.