Do I Amuse You?

A driving force in my life is to be heard. I had a brief stint on radio. I've performed on "stage" with my guitar. And like David with his slingshot, I've stood up at meetings and spoken my mind rationally, intelligently, and with respect, often to those who don't return it and for those who choose to be silent.

I blog. I post. I tweet. I'm now writing for television - not because anyone is paying me to, but that will come. :-)

And none of that has anything to do with today's topic.

I'm not talking about random acts of kindness, of which I am a huge fan. Those are acts that require no "listener", no recognition.

I'm talking about the not-so-random, purposeful act of recognizing a stranger. Not being silent. Acknowledging that you see and recognize another person, who equally has needs, emotions, stress, heartache, joy, purpose.

Recently I traveled solo to a software conference. No one else from my company was attending, and my girlfriend couldn't join me. At the conference itself, getting eye contact from others was very difficult, just to smile, nod or say "hello." I know people think IT folks are the introvert sort, but trust me, there are extroverts in all industries. Though discouraged, I made a point of doing so, and it felt good. For those who were too shy or too rude, I had to let that go.

Coming home on the plane, an elderly couple sat next to me yet oddly refused to acknowledge me. I said "hello" but received nothing. Perhaps I was quiet, or they didn't hear me. I was seated at the window; the woman between me and her traveling partner. She elbowed my rib cage or my shoulder at least six times. I understand it's tight seating, but she never acknowledged her actions. I gave up the left armrest as I do for anyone "stuck" in the middle seat. And I accommodated however I could: leaning into the window, pulling my shoulders in, etc. I didn't glare, sigh heavily or demand apologies, but a simple gesture from this woman -- a smile, a shrug -- would have acknowledged me.

So here's what I take from it: I choose to acknowledge others, and will consciously do so more and as much as humanly possible so I don't make anyone feel so alone. I will let them know I see them. They are human. They are equals.

Last week, a friend of mine, Dan, scared the bejesus out of me when we he walked past me on the stairs at work. Why? He didn’t jump out or yell or trip me or anything like that. He simply said hello. The reason it scared me? Because I don’t look up when I’m on the stairs. I stare at my feet. Not because I’m so uncoordinated I may lose the stairway rhythm and stumble (that happens no matter where I’m looking). It’s because I’m totally self-conscious on public staircases. Not of my own lack of balance; it’s from the asses in front of me.

Think about it. Although the mechanical design of a staircase is sound for getting people from one story to the next (it’s better than ramps everywhere), the social design is entirely flawed. If you walk one stair behind the person in front of you, you’re essentially spooning and will get elbowed, slapped or called into the HR office for invading personal space. Plus you really don’t want to know what they had for breakfast through deduction. So we allow at least two, usually three, stairs between ourselves and the next person. However, at three stairs apart, when you look forward, you’re staring into the ass of a stranger; or worse, a colleague. Male or female, it’s just as frightening. So I stare at my feet to avoid seeing the ass of someone else consume my field of view. I’m sure I appear ridiculous or antisocial to others, but that’s OK.

I can’t look forward. It’s like having a conversation with someone who has a lazy eye. I try to play it cool and repeat in my head “stare at the bridge of their nose, stare at the bridge!” That way they feel like it’s genuine eye contact and I may not even notice their involuntary meandering. Instead I panic – I become captivated by the wandering eye and follow its every move like Emmitt Smith on the dance floor.

Hopefully you’ll be self-conscious the next time you hit the stairs at work or the mall so I don’t have to face my neuroses alone.

[Postscript: An Afterword]
Not sure if you care, but there are reasons for my self-consciousness on stairways that I thought I’d explain. When I walk behind a woman (a stranger), I notice when her pace quickens, or her back tightens, or she clutches her purse closer to her body. It kills me. I want to say, “Excuse me… I won’t touch you, rob you, rape you, or hurt you in any way.” But I don’t say anything and I certainly don’t take it personally because I understand. It’s the way of the world and you have to be cautious, aware of your surroundings at all times and keep your guard up.

And even if not threatened, I don’t want a woman to assume I’m staring at her ass. Or when facing each other, anything but her face. You know the old joke a woman says to a man: “Turn around. Now, what color are my eyes?” So when I talk to a woman, I look at her eyes, take note of the color just in case I’m ever pop-quizzed and fight the urge to look anywhere else – not because of a sexual deviancy, but because when someone says don’t look here, what’s the first thing you do? Yes, I overthink everything and constantly put myself into these ridiculous predicaments that are entirely self-created. Woody Allen ain’t got nothin’ on me.

And I’ve got to be one of the most non-threatening people on the planet. I’m not quite 5’6” and don’t have a swagger in my step, or an imaginary board up my bum. But I learned this because I am the cut point in any line. Anywhere there is a long line (waiting to board a plane, waiting to pee at an outdoor concert, or waiting to see Randy, Paula and Simon), I am the person that people walk in front of (and usually clip with their purse or elbow) when there is no gap in a line they need to cut through in a perpendicular fashion. No apologies or a “pardon me”. It’s almost like I’m not there. And they are never worried about my retaliation, which they somehow know just isn’t coming.

I’m not complaining about being viewed as threatening or entirely non-threatening; I just wish y’all would be consistent, that’s all.

Next week: Pranking people who insist on reading their BlackBerries while walking.

Oh, they’re [brown] [blue] [green] [hazel] [amber] [Thriller yellow] [bloodshot].

[BREAKING:] No time to read? I totally understand. Let me read this blog to you HoCoMoJo Podcast style!

Like every other stir-crazy homebody that has had enough of winter, I’m ecstatic that spring is finally here. Longer days, warmer weather, the return of life all around us; it’s a welcome time of year. Granted, I’m a whiner, so I’ll also complain about the misery of seasonal allergies and the return of the insect world –my windshield is already covered with those that were in this world less than the second season of Jake in Progress, Emily’s Reasons Why Not or Love Monkey. [Note to self: watch the dated references] ahem...less than the second season of Middle Class Stay at Home Dads that love their HAM radios of East Cambridge, only on Bravo.


Leaving the jacket in the closet is that little bonus I treasure. And spring attire looks great on paper, but in practice can be a disaster. This spring, please show consideration for everyone else before dressing by following these simple yet practical rules:

• Capri pants (no matter what label they’re given this season) only look good on women – trust me, you look ridiculous, dude. And if you could straighten the brim of your trucker hat parallel with your nose, or opposite exactly 180° (that's just plain backwards), I’d be ever so grateful.
• Topless lawn care can only be pulled off by 2% of the male population, and even they come off as narcissistic – are you in the top 2? Seriously?! We both know the answer to that, so keep your shirt on. Ladies? Hey, if you want to continue to allow a repressive male society to keep you down with their outdated, puritanical restrictions, that's your choice.
• If your thong looks like it’s splitting two giant hams, it’s definitely not kosher. For dudes, the Capri pants rule applies.
• Banana hammocks are meant for Olympic swimmers – and only at Olympic events held every four years in another host country; never the beach or neighborhood pool.

Gentlemen, your razor is your friend. Don’t be shy with it. If you can’t reach a spot, ask for help. Otherwise, cover it up. You’re scaring the children.

If we all follow these simple rules, everyone can enjoy the season (and keep our collective lunches down). Thank you!

What fashion faux pas belong in your neighborhood's covenants or rental agreement?