NTKOG #37: The kind of girl for whom life is her dressing room, and who flashes some skin as easily as most people flash a smile.
I am: modest; not naked.
I am not: even comfortable with some of the fashion trends endorsed by today’s youth, let alone removing them in public.
The Scene: A rainy Friday in Cambridge; I have left work for the day to interview for a job in one of the many institutions on the hahvahd campus. It is my intention to wear my totally gorgeous Serious Dang Interview Suit, but as the day is gray and drizzly and the suit costs half a month’s rent, I wear a normal shirt and cardigan to work, and am carrying a garment bag carrying the suit jacket and a sleeveless silk shell.
Under normal circumstances, pressed for time though I was in getting to the interview, I would have two option: changing into said suit before I left work, braving serious wrinklage; or else getting to the interview site exceedingly early, finding a nearby Starbucks, storming in and straight to the restroom (pantomiming the conveniently universal must-wash-hands-before-even-contemplating-ordering gesture), and then quickchange, sashay out, and problem avoided.
But what if in this strange, glorious world of ours, a third method might exist? After the forty minute bus ride, I hopped out of my bus to realize that the weather had slowed down to the barest drizzle. Before I turned onto the correct road for the interview, I gripped the garment bag with my teeth, peeled off my clothes down to a definitely-wouldn’t-wear-in-public cami in the ever-popular “girl’s gym class” mode of modest disrobement, snaked my clothes out of the bag, got suited up, and repacked the garment bag into my oversize purse. And you know what? Surprisingly not awkward. I mean, one guy walked past and asked, “Shouldn’t you have done that at home?” but otherwise, nobody took notice. Not even the cluster of Cambodian buskers I realized too late were standing only about a foot away from my quick-change act.
On the way home, the rain had picked up, and I decided to change back out of my suit while on the bus. On the way in, psyched to continue my experiment, I walked on to catch an eyeful of the belly of a totally shirtless dude. BEATEN TO THE PUNCH! Then it became evident that the guy, a cute-ish dude in the back of the bus with mushroom cloud hair, had merely accidentally removed his shirt wile taking off a sweater. The only seats available were in the back, near him, so I got myself situated on a side bench and followed suit on the whole, y’know, “clothes: now you see them, now … not so much?” maneuver.
Once everything was where it belonged and covering what it should, I looked back at the guy and saw him smirking. “Hey,” I told him, “It looks like you started a trend back here.” But he couldn’t hear me, and left his stuff in his original seat to move a bit closer to me, although not in my bench. He asked why I was changing and I mentioned I’d had an interview; he was interested and polite, but kept stumbling over my use of simple phrases like “gatekeeper” and “psycho screening.” Great job, TKOG, I was just beginning to think — way to pick up a guy with a slight mental handicap, when the bus quieted and I realized he had a small accent. German. Interesting.
The conversation heated up further: for some reason, he made a reference to the show Big Bang Theory and said the guys on the show reminded him of himself; I asked if he was into physics and he said he had been (!!! To say I have a slight interest in physicists would be like suggesting Jack the Ripper had a mere passing fancy for prostitutes; although unlike Jack, my interest falls short of any internal organs–I’m sorry, what were we talking about?), but now studied theology. At this point, his original seat has been stolen and we’re shouting over the body of a man sitting between us, so I pat the empty seat next to me and he sits down, his knee grazing mine.
And then things get weird.
TKOG: So where in Germany are you from?
German Former Physicist: Munich.
TKOG: Oh, sweet! I’ve never been there, but I have a friend who lived in Berlin for a while, and absolutely loved it. I’ve been there too and would love to go back.
GFP: Ha! Berlin is [gurgles mucous in the back of his throat in lieu of a sufficiently offensive term] — nobody wants to go to Berlin. It is too liberal and socialist. The streets are filled with homosexuals and everyone believes in socialim. People from Munich are very conservative and Christian, and we do not want anything to do with Berlin.
TKOG: Oh. Yeah. Well, I mean, what’s considered conservative in Europe is often very liberal by US standards.
GFP: You are from California? Is it true that gay marriage was outlawed there? I thought it was overrun with homosexuals.
Detecting that he wasn’t going to drop the unpleasaant new theme of conversation, I starting giving monosyllabic grunts in response to his rants, but the floodgates were already open. For nearly ten minutes he went on a tirade about how socialists were bankrupting Germany and how they should be shot in the streets like dogs. Dear god, I thought, a puppy-killer on top of everying.
Finally the crazed young Joe McCarthy pulled his Cosby sweater back on and prepared to get off the bus — right at my stop. I waved goodbye and watched him walk off in the rain, before sneaking out of the bus at the next stop and skulking home through the homoseual and socialist-littered streets that I so adore.
The Verdict: Changing yo’ dang clothes in public: dude, not even a problem. The lesson is, I suppose, a recurring theme of this project: you are not the singular center of the universe, surprisingly enough, and if you want to do something, dude, just go ahead and do it. Nobody is going to give you a hard time, so might as well make life convenient for yourself.
The other lesson I learned through this experience? The same damn lesson we learn every day, Pinky: You can meet guys on the street or in a bus. Heck, you can even talk to guys you meet in the street or on a bus. But you cannot make any meaningful connection with said guys because they are all bunny-boilingly insane. Sigh.
