I wear my headphones on public transportation, even though I’m usually not playing any music. I’m just operating at maximum capacity for human contact on most days, because I’m an introvert, and I’m a nanny, and tinies require constant interaction. It isn’t you, it’s me, lost European tourist looking for “Broadway” despite the fact that 17 other people on the train have explained to you that Broadway isn’t a FIXED POINT IN TIME AND SPACE, it is a street. A very, very long street that runs throughout Manhattan. A minuscule portion of the district happens to have a smattering of theaters.
Okay, actually it’s you.
Also? Despite my crippling social anxiety that makes me break into hives at the thought of carrying on a conversation on the subway, if you’re sitting next to me and move to take another seat that’s empty, I will be offended. Every time. I will wonder if I emanate antisocial like the chick hanging onto the bar above us reeks of “I Don’t Believe In Deodorant”, or if you just like making women question their place in this world. Rationally I understand that, like me, you’re probably just exhausted and want to put your feet in the adjacent seat (I Am That Person, Too). But confined spaces do not a Rational Kassie make.
I walk and read my Kindle at the same time, even though I judge you for doing the same thing. “But I’m coordinated and have superior spatial awareness!” I say.
That is a lie. Despite spending the better part of my 23 years on this earth building a career in dance, I am the definition of spatially challenged. It’s dangerous for me to go places alone because I have nobody to pull me out of the way of oncoming cabs.
The last time I listened to a song in its entirety, without skipping it once I heard my favorite part, was when I was nursing a scratched and lacerated cornea after running into a tree branch. I walked to Urgent Care with a Dixie cup taped to my eye and couldn’t see the “forward” button on my phone.
In mass I’m the woman who refuses to hold hands in the Our Father and pretends it’s because the General Instructions for the Roman Missal don’t call for it, but actually it’s because I’m a germophobe but also feel weird about sanitizing my hands in church. Yet I drink from the cup. Jesus is Germ-X for the Soul, or something like that. I don’t know. In order to explain logic, there must be logic.
I avoid ordering items off of the menu if I can’t pronounce them. I have googled “pronunciation of [________]” under the table to avoid looking like an idiot when necessary.
I just had to get this off my chest, you guys. Because I’m Judgey McJudgerton, who ate remnants of a baby’s string cheese and a leftover bag of snack mix for breakfast, even though I stared at your Big Mac in the park like it was poison.