duck-shaped pain

When I was 19, people thought I looked 27. Now that I'm almost 27, people think I look 19. If this continues much longer, in a few years, people will think I vaguely resemble an embryo.

I went to the store tonight to buy some shampoo. I looked like I normally do � black turtleneck, black jeans, the boots (the ones up above, yep [1]) and my black peacoat. It wasn't my intention to wear all black � these things just sort of happen. Shampoo selection already made, I was hanging around, reading the kinds of magazines you only read at the grocery store, when this couple came up and stood next to me. I wasn't paying attention to what they were doing, really, and I don't know at what point in their conversation I became a topic, but I did notice when the man of the couple sort of gestured over at me and said, "That girl, over there, she can't be more than 19."

Uhhhh�.

It wasn't complimentary, I don't think. Of course, I looked around to see if they could be pointing at anyone else, but the only other reading enthusiast around was some older man checking out some trucks-and-tits sort of magazine. [2] So he obviously (at least I hope) wasn't referring to him.

Back when I was 19, though, I got the opposite reaction, but at least I sort of knew why. At the time, I did deliberately try to look older than I was � I wore nice suits to COLLEGE, for chrissake [3] -- and I had a job where I was loosely in charge of some people. At least I think I was in charge � I had the shoulder pads required to be in charge, so they deferred to me out of fear, I think.

This job had many amusing aspects (none of which came out of the work itself � I was the assistant to my college's PR director, so I did a lot of faxing and made up facts about my school for annual college surveys [4]). The people I sort of supervised worked in the school's copy center, making notepads, folding newsletters and violating copyright right and left. Some of the people who worked there were cool. However, this job was home to the two stupidest people I've ever worked with, which is saying a lot, considering that I worked at the G*p.

One was an older woman, named S. I will not tell you her real name, because you will laugh. It's a real soap opera kind of name. She was not only stupid � she was mean and bitchy, too. She had a four-year-old son that she brought to work with her everyday, even though this was forbidden. Once in awhile would have been okay, but he was constantly underfoot. And he bit. There was daycare available on campus, free to students, but S. always told us that she didn't want to put the lil' biter in daycare because "they would turn him against me." Hey, it's only a matter of time, lady.

Anyway, the computer I worked on � a long-lost, lamented Macintosh IIci � was in the copy center, and I let the other employees use it to write papers on if they needed to. One day, the computer completely cratered, so I took the CPU into a local repair shop to have it fixed. I left the monitor and keyboard where they always were, since I figured no one would try to mess with the computer or� god forbid�try to use it.

Later that day, S. came in. She sat down at my desk and started to type at the keyboard. She typed for a good three or four minutes before stopping to look puzzled for awhile and then calling me over.

"What's wrong with this computer?" she asked me. "I turned it on and started typing, but nothing's happening." I discreetly pointed out to her that the reason the computer was not working was because it was NOT THERE. You would think that would be the end, but no, I got an endless harangue about why wasn't the computer there? Was this a trick? Was she set up for failure? It was sad.

This is the woman, btw, who always thought I was 27, no matter how many times I reminded her otherwise. Now you know what this part of the entry has to do with the first part of the entry.

The other stupid person there was this girl named B. B. came from a fairly wealthy Denver family, and got sent to my school for two reasons: a) she couldn't get in anywhere else and b) her family wanted to separate her from her creepy 45-year-old (she was 18) district attorney boyfriend. It's the old pattern: send your idiots, troublemakers and black sheep west so they don't bother you anymore.

B. was at least aware that she was two tracks shy of an Eagles' Greatest Hits CD. Still, that didn't stop her from being aggressively idiotic. She would go on and on about all the money her DA honey sent her every week, how she loved mentally disabled children because "they have no choice but to love you back" and how her ultimate goal in life was to have 8 kids and own her own Victoria's Secret franchise. She would call all her friends in Denver during work and talk for hours in sounds that were not really words but closer to squeals and brain farts. We all hated her.

P., this guy who also worked there, and who was pretty cool, got really tired of her really fast. B. sensed this and reacted by flocking to him and shadowing his every move. One day, B.'s car wasn't working. She asked P. and some of the other people in the copy center if they could figure out what was wrong with it. She wasn't doing a good job of explaining what was wrong, relying too heavily on phrases such as "that thing," "the doohickey" and "clear leaking fluid." Finally, P. just said, "Hey B., I know what's wrong. You're out of � blinker fluid. What you need to do is go down to the auto parts store and tell them you need some more blinker fluid. That should clear up the problem."

Of course, we were all dying inside. We couldn't wait to hear the conclusion of the B. Shops For Blinker Fluid story. So, she came back the next day, triumphant-looking.

"The guys at the store were real helpful to me. They said that all their blinker fluid was backordered, but three of them asked me out. I guess when the stuff comes in, one of them is going to come over to my house to change my blinker fluid personally."

Anyway, she dropped out of school and married her slimy DA. I saw her once in awhile when I was in Denver. She used to come into the G*p while I was working there. She would always show me her newest jewelry and ask if I could steal her things. Uh, no.

[1] Ever since I've put up that picture, my shoes have received more fan mail than I have. Not sure if this is because I've hit that bad of a rut or because they're really fascinating shoes.

[2] I'm always surprised to see that those magazines have words.

[3] The tragedy of this is explained better here.

[4] This was officially sanctioned, in case you're asking. "Make us look like a place someone would want to go to."

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