Listen, I can appreciate a sunset as much as the next broad. Meditation is fine, and I like babies and the ocean and the smell of fall. I’m not a totally cynical waste of space. I am grateful for the good, simple things in life, but every now and again I feel like there’s something wrong with me for not appreciating “positive energy”. I get really nervous around and embarrassed by public displays of emotion. Here are a few fun and ~*quirky*~ moments in life’s journey that make me want to curl up in a ball and die.
Ok. I’d rather pay $100 for hand sanitizer than accept a “free hug” from a stranger. First off, remember — nothing in life is free. You’re going to pay for that hug in some way. And the people holding those signs are never people you want in your immediate vicinity.
I love your vibe girl but I’m not really looking for a communicable disease. I think what bothers me most is the arrogance involved in supposing that people, who are just trying their best to go about their day with one shred of dignity, should go out of their way to validate and promote the misguided belief that you’re this totally zen, super chill person. We get it, you’re a free spirit. If anything, your sign should read “free hugs?” with a question mark, and you should be crying in a fetal position on the sidewalk. That’s the only circumstance in which you’re allowed to hold that particular piece of cardboard. Sorry, you weird hippie.
This is another public display that makes me wildly uncomfortable. Played off as very inclusive things, like, “hey, we’re all so wacky!” they’re actually very exclusionary and make an outsider painfully aware they’re not part of the fun. Any sort of street art performance is like this. It leaves the “audience” vulnerable, like something is happening to them without their permission. This makes me sound mad jealous like I really just want to be asked to join in, but I swear I don’t. One time I was witness to one on a ferry, which is a particularly heinous brand of flash mob because your victims have nowhere to go, unless they want to jump ship.
I’m fairly lucky to have only been involved in one audience participation experience. As a teenager I was on a class trip to Ottawa and Montreal. We went to a Cirque du Soleil show and I was sitting at the end of my row in a brightly colored outfit, basically asking for it. A clown from the show started his segment. The bit was to pluck some fresh young thing out of the audience to “marry” him. He approached me. I hesitated at first but felt it would be less humiliating to just go along with it than to have this weird clown beg me to marry him for another twenty minutes. He gave me a veil and we started to walk down the stadium aisle with wedding music playing from the stage. At the end of the aisle he gestured for me to kiss him on the cheek, then at the last second he turned his face and kissed me directly on the lips. I was horrified. Not only was I a shy teenager basically humiliated by my entire existence, it was my first kiss. Surrounded by onlookers. With some random gross clown who probably had oral herpes. I mean, he didn’t, but you know, he could have.
You have to be a sociopath to want to be the receiver or giver of a foot massage. That might be a broad, unfair and dramatic statement but I stand by it. Once my sister told me whoever she was to marry would have to either a) cover up his feet at all times or b) not have feet. That really stuck with me as being very on point. Of course she is now happily married to what appears to be a two-footed man and I don’t think she has any qualms about it, but let’s still just acknowledge that feet are disgusting. Foot maintenance should be left to professionals and even then I can’t help but constantly think “you poor son of a bitch” while every muscle in my body tightens and I pray for it to be over. And if you’re asking a loved one to do that for you, please don’t be surprised when they leave in the middle of the night with half of your belongings.