It seems I can't go anywhere these days without total strangers deciding that I look like I need a hug and should be engaged in conversation.
I met my most recent new "friend" at the Anacortes ferry terminal while sitting in the walk-on passenger waiting area. Her name was Liz. She was messily eating a muffin and kept dropping crumbs onto her white capris. "Oh, would you look at me!" she exclaimed. "Don't eat muffins with white pants! New rule!" She guffawed--really there is no other word for the sound her mouth produced--and the entire population of the sleepy waiting area turned to look at us. As you can probably imagine, based on how much I adore attention, I was mortified.
Other noteworthy Liz moments:
1. She told me I had a "youthful, energetic" face and guessed that I was 19. I should add that she'd already told me she used to teach at Western Washington University--meaning that she spent all her days around people my age and still thought I looked like I'd just barely graduated from high school. I've decided that I'm going to keep track of how old people think I look. Maybe if I get enough guesses they'll average themselves out to at least 17.
2. After she conned her way into getting me to confess my plans for the future, she suggested that I make a storyboard to help me write. She also said that she won a trip to England once for writing a haiku that was "absolute dog shit."
3. She saw my guitar case leaning against the bench next to me and asked what I was playing. Gee, a piano.
4. She asked if I was going to adopt a nom de plume when I was published. Now, I may be wrong, but when you hear that someone wants to be a writer is the first question you generally ask whether or not they're satisfied with their name? Yeah, I'm taking a pen name. It's Nunya Damb Isnuss.
5. When I'm in public by myself, I'm terrified of looking like a fool in front of complete strangers I'll never see again. It's completely irrational but knowing that isn't going to assuage my fear. In these instances I tend to keep a low profile, sinking down behind my open book or standing in line quietly or finding the least disruptive way to do whatever the situation calls for. No such luck with Liz. She wanted to know, loudly, if I could recommend a good place to get dinner on the island. I had no choice but to answer, with the preface that "I am no local," which I hoped was enough of an excuse to explain to any islanders within earshot that I wasn't claiming an intimate knowledge of Eastound's culinary scene. I mumbled my way through a few restaurants while Liz unfolded her map and followed along as I gave her the street names (there are literally only two).
Stay tuned for more stories of how people take pity on me because I supposedly look like I have no friends.
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