‘We’re talking about space. Recreational, fucking space!’
I was inside my head when I came home from work last night. I usually am — I don’t clear my mind of the day’s events very easily, given that a lot of the work is creative in nature and inspiration usually strikes when I’m released from my little box.
I’d also had, for all intents and purposes, a great day and wasn’t about to ruin my little bubble.
And then, I got home.
I’ll forgive the fact that I needed pet food and didn’t get to the pet store till 9:06 p.m. (Aaaand, it closed at 9.) I picked up a pizza at the joint next door and went to another store closer to home for catty kibble — I don’t sweat details like this; I use them as opportunities.
But then, hell broke loose.
I had too much to carry, but I wasn’t going to make more than one trip. My stupid management company didn’t see fit to salt the non-city-owned walkways, which were a sheet of ice. I don’t do well on ice. I don’t own a single pair of non-fashion boots and I really didn’t want to fall on my ass with a bag full of groceries, a pizza, a box full of crap that I’d ordered and had delivered to work, two books to read this weekend, and a pile of paperwork.
I was juggling all this shit when my upstairs neighor pulled into the spot next to me. He’s nice enough. Creepy, sort of, but whatever. And I didn’t feel like talking. I know, it was an early night (trust me, getting home before 10 is a luxury), but I had talked to everyone I needed to talk to yesterday, and again, I wanted to be inside my head. We already established the fact long ago that we have NOTHING in common, and now that I’m moving? There’s no need for me to be social.
Anyway, I wanted to strangle him because I think I made it pretty clear when I jetted the fuck away from my car that I wanted to be alone. The ice, however, impeded my progress a bit, and fucker was RIGHT ON MY HEELS for the 100-yard walk. I was pissed. Seriously, pissed. I guess it’s wrong to expect someone to give the person in front of them a little breathing room on the ice.
I knew he was at my heels. It was making me nervous, truth be told. I don’t see the problem in trailing someone by a few feet, not inches. I was clearly not interested in acknowledging his presence — why do I have to be punished for it?
So I get to my door, and something had been delivered there that SHOULD have been delivered as a gift to someone else (on Jan. 23, not Feb. 2). I was furious — people in my building are known to open others’ packages, take what items they want, and re-seal them. I kid you not.
From my overloaded vantage point, I was trying to figure out whether the package had been opened as I put the key in the lock.
And I dropped everything.
Every.thing.
Including the pizza, which landed face-down. *splat*
Asshole was standing right behind me … I mean, RIGHT behind me. I know he needed to get past me, but seriously, BREATHING ROOM, people. Has anyone heard of it?
I was scrambling to get the key in the door when the pizza hit the floor, the package, the books, the paperwork, my purse and my other shoulder bag. Cans of cat food went rolling. Expletives went flying.
I didn’t look at the guy.
He mumbled some sort of snotty, “Sor-ry” my way, as though he expected I blamed him for breathing.
Which, was sort of true.
I just answered with a very tired, “It’s just that kind of day” and kicked all my shit into the doorway.
But it WASN’T that kind of day. Not by a long shot.
I hate feeling like I have to cover up so others don’t feel bad. Even though he WAS the reason I was scurrying!
I just get angry that I can’t choose to ignore someone who creeps me out. It’s 10 p.m., there was just a report of an assault on the property and damn it, what law prevents me from choosing to not want to talk to strange men at that hour?!?! (Unless I’m in a bar — talking to strange men is mandatory, in that case!)
I already have to put up with enough people in this world I can’t stand — don’t crowd my space and get added to the shit list. It’s a short list, which means all the ire that would normally be targeted to a crowd is split evenly between two people. I just added No. 2 last Friday night — want to be third?
I don’t know. I don’t ever want to make anybody feel bad, but was I wrong to just want some personal fucking space? No one was out at that hour — do you really need someone at your heels, on the ice? It’s like when you’re the only car on the road and some nitwit is tailgating you. Go around, drop back or drive off a cliff — just quit breakin’ my stride and stealin’ my peace.
Like Jim Belushi said in “About Last Night” — “We’re talking about space. Recreational fucking space!”