1. Supermarket cashiers
I vaguely understand how taking a glimpse into my emotional eating habits may make you feel like we’re bonding, but I assure you, we are not. Please refrain from inquiring about the obnoxious amount of pizza rolls and white chocolate-covered pretzels steadily moving towards you–at a speed slow enough for me to already question my own intentions multiple times before their arrival at your hip. Asking if I’m having friends over only creates an awkward moment for one of us when I’m forced to lie to you and answer, “yes,” simply to privatize my unhealthy relationship with junk food. Chances are, you don’t realize what you’re doing to me, but it’s always safe to assume that approximately 30 minutes later, I will be dripping greasy ranch-dipped goodness all over my keyboard while I angrily Google “ancient voodoo spells” with you in mind. Invertedly, please remember that your life is none of my business, either. Explaining to me how rough your day has been and showing me that you’re still wearing your scrub pants in an effort to prove how little time you had to prepare for your part-time gig after today’s shift at your “real” job does not impress me. It only forces me to resent you for working 2 jobs while I sit at home with my drunken thumb up my ass (figuratively, of course–anal’s not my thing). And what’s worse, as I start to walk away, I hear you begin to give the exact same spiel to my descendent. COME ON–Kayla, is it? Do you realize how cheap that makes me feel?! I thought we were bonding!
What is it about motherhood that makes some women believe their children must tell them every last, demoralizing thing? From the most intimate details of my sex life to the consistency of this morning’s shit, my mom wants it all. I get entitlement to some extent, I pushed a human being out of me once, too–it’s not the ideal way to spend a surprise day off from work. Don’t get me wrong, Ma, you deserve the credit for my existence and everything you’ve done for me since then. However, the amount of times per week I re-enact the conception of my own child should remain something to be desired. I’ll have you know Jillian’s parents don’t ask her embarrassing questions…
I honestly can’t explain this any better than the scene from This Is 40 when ‘Pete’ asks ‘Deb’ to check his anal cavity for hemorrhoids. If you haven’t seen it, it’s just as troubling as it sounds.
4. Children (mostly mine, but also yours)
My son finds it acceptable to tickle my (waaay low) lower abdomen every time he catches me naked from the waist down. Hell, even when I have pants on, he’s inappropriate. Just this morning while I was pouring his cereal, he walked up and stuck his face in my ass crack. I suppose it’s time to start teaching him to keep his nose out of other people’s #2 business. Children are tiny advocates for the “no shame game” and frankly, it creeps me out. Also, what’s up with your kids always asking fat people if they’re pregnant?
Everyone has that one person within their workplace who so painfully wants to a part of your life that they initially make too many awkward attempts at connecting with you on, what they perceive to be, your level. You mention once that you were more of an N*SYNC than Backstreet Boys fan growing up and suddenly they’re drafting daily emails cluttered with No Strings Attached lyrics and “Where Are They Now?” articles. You play along with half-hearted “oh, wow”s and what YOU perceive to be neutrally cordial emoticons, which in the end only leads to said acquaintance believing you to be their new office confidant. One week later, they’re confiding in you every gruesome detail of the latest issue involving their girl parts along with the amount of unpaid debt they’re currently hiding from. Woah girl, boundaries.
Okay, I realize they’re not technically people, but I’m grouping them in because the disease riddled species seems to have just as much distaste for me as my fellow man. Unfortunately, the boundaries of birds’ defecation destinations aren’t just limited to my car, house, childhood swing set, and anywhere I may want to sit my ass down. In fact, their most satisfying dropzone is on my immediate person–roughly somewhere between my C-cups and the top of my head. I’ve been shit on 4 times in my life, 75% of the incidents by a bird (the other 25% contributed by my kid, which only adds to my justification of #4). I can’t help but wonder for which morally-questionable decision from my past I’m currently paying retribution. Realistically though, I more than likely deserved every mortifying splatter. If you haven’t noticed already, I’m kind of a shitty person.