“Can you wave hello to the nice man? Wave hello…c’mon, wave hi hi to the nice man…” I recently joined beaming, 30-something, stroller pushing parents in my building’s freight elevator. They were on their way to a family picnic by the looks of their red, white, and blue coordinated attire. It was Fourth of July. I was celebrating the birth of a great nation by taking out a brown paper shopping bag brimming with empty beer bottles. I never buy a six-pack; I prefer the 40s which — in my head, supports my twisted “I only had ONE beer” rationalization. There’s a smug sense of accomplishment when I hear the scraping, car crash sound of glass against glass as I toss my moldy empties into the recycling bin.
But I am not a “nice man” lady. Why, if it were up to me, your fug baby would already be handcrafting NIKE gym shoes in some remote wet spot of a Vietnam village. I think developing a sense of commerce and community is important at a very early age; structure and discipline are important with children. If a child can’t prepare and deliver scotch eggs and a bloody mary bedside on a white wicker tray I simply don’t have the time to invest my tax dollars into area schools. But I digress.
No. I am not a “nice man.” I am a razor-tongued, quick wit who is emotionally arrested; I have feelings and thoughts that don’t parallel my age and life experience. I need to grow up, grow a pair, and get my shit together. I am a flighty, bitchy “mean girl” of a social climber in a man boob cage not of my making. No. Actually I DID make this man boob cage of a body. See above beer intake. Add to that chalk board equation dinners out and a lackluster gym schedule.
Meh. My actions sometimes don’t match my heart. And vice versa. But a coworker says I have a “good heart.” His surface assessment is based on my over extended ability to buy choice birthday gifts at better department stores. I’ve always been that way. I don’t care what something costs if it will make someone happy. Within reason, of course; spending $150 on a TOM FORD powder compact may be viewed as ‘what were you thinking’ with regard to coworker holiday gifts but I don’t think that while sliding plastic across the sales counter. It’s the thought that counts, right? And by giving expensive gifts I validate my ability to do so. It’s my twisted logic on the road to becoming a “nice man” maybe. A former boss, a chronic alcoholic and full-time asshole, once told me that I bought my staff’s loyalty with unnecessary acknowledgements of their birthdays and Christmas. “…You may get them working late hours with that nonsense but they don’t respect you.”
He’s dead now. So who won that round, bitch.