I hate people. Seriously, people around here are really getting on my nerves. They’re always doing things to bug me, like warning me that I didn’t put a mug under the Keurig machine spout (I was about to!), wishing me “Happy New Year!” in February (It ain’t new anymore, folks!), and replying to my “thank you” emails with their own “thank you” emails. (Is there a setting to auto-reply “bite me!” to those?!)
I’m telling you, if people get any more hyper-considerate around here I’m gonna lose it and move to Morrisville. Mo-Villains know how to bust your chops properly!
Yeah — somehow I’ve never gotten along with people. I’m introverted. Kinda quiet. I’d probably be a serial killer if I could only find the time.
It’s tough to avoid people, though. They’re all over the place. So I observe. Like when I walk into a party and my spider senses immediately kick in. “Do I fit in? Do I look like the rest of the crowd? What am I doing wrong?”
Obviously, the first thing I’m doing wrong is going to parties. Somebody explain how I can go to great lengths to be antisocial and still get invites to these?
I always check what men are wearing at a party. Well, when I’m done checking the party for hot women, that is. I honestly should not be blamed for that. We now live in a society where it’s become socially acceptable for women to wear skintight, spandex leggings for every conceivable occasion. And I am not complaining about that one bit.
Besides, the hotness-checking happens for all men at a DNA level, dating back to prehistoric times when invertebrate male organisms first dragged themselves onto dry land from the primordial ooze and thought, “Whoa — that newt is smokin’!”
The guys don’t escape my attention, though. For instance, I go to Montreal often and there are distinct differences between how the guys dress there and how they dress in Vermont. I call it: The Hangover Spectrum.
See, there’s a moment in that movie where all four guys are walking down the hotel hallway, ready to hit Vegas. The entire male fashion spectrum is on display. You’ve got Bradley Cooper, the epitome of style with the open-collar black shirt under a slick suit jacket. That represents Montreal guys. Then you have the groom with the typical suit jacket over white shirt. That’s one notch down from Bradley because, well, every dude is a notch down from Bradley. Next is the awkward dentist with the bland, grayish suit jacket over a ’70s-era sport shirt, failing miserably. That would be me. Then there’s Zach Galifianakis. White pants. Man-purse slung over his shoulder. Gaudy T-shirt stretched over a beer gut. That’s Vermont. Not following the trends. Going its own way. Proud and unabashed and more than a little clueless.
My fashion choices are based on The Hangover Spectrum. I save my black clothes for Montreal and wear my plaid in the 802. It doesn’t work. They have me pegged as a flatlander here and a poser in Montreal.
My hair doesn’t help. After extensive research, I have determined the following: There are no blond men in Montreal.
“Not a one!” I proclaimed to my girlfriend one night. We were at a Montreal restaurant and the sea of men’s black haircuts, buzzed infuriatingly on the sides, was really bugging me.
“That’s ridiculous,” replied my girlfriend. “There are blond guys all over the place.”
Challenge accepted. She began scanning the restaurant. “Ummm, OK … wait, there’s one — oh no. Uhhhh … hmmm …”
Then she actually got up and walked around the entire restaurant, looking everywhere, pretending she couldn’t find the restrooms, before returning back to our table and declaring, “That waiter is kind of blond.”
I saw who she meant. “He’s not blond; he’s sandy brown! And he’s got a unibrow — blond men don’t have those!”
“Ain’t no such thing as a uniblonde!”
I stand by my words. You’ve got a better chance of finding blond Sasquatch than blond Montreal dude. Unless you bump into me up there. And you might. I still go up there on weekends.
I just had my passport renewed. It was worn. Picture faded. Ten years have passed since I got my last one. And the only reason I got it was because of Liane — some weird Canadian girl I met online that I thought I might pay a visit to.
I remember that first date. I actually wore cargo pants and some ridiculous shirt two sizes too big. We fought over who paid the check, something that hasn’t changed to this very day. Waiters all over Vermont and Montreal know us as that couple who might tackle them to get the check first. They’ve learned to just toss it up like a basketball and flee.
My girlfriend is an insane genius. She’s always making me try things like echinacea and matcha tea and other things I can’t pronounce without Googling them. She’ll grab my head and forcibly apply lip balm, yelling, “Don’t lick your lips! Why do you always lick your lips?”
We have developed thousands of super-schmoopie catch-phrases that make people want to strangle us. (“And that ain’t no joke! I just wanna squeeze! Muuuuuah!” See? Your homicide gene just kicked in, didn’t it?)
So many things that drive me nuts when we’re together and make me smile when we’re apart. Even on some winter day, as I’m getting out of my car, feeling the freezing wind blast my face, I can think of something she did and it warms my heart. Then my neighbor will pass by and give me a friendly reminder that my headlight is out. (Shut up! I haven’t gotten it fixed yet — get off my back!)
Yeah, I really do hate people.
But a person can be so cool. Somehow in a world where I don’t fit in, we fit together perfectly. Love ya, babe!
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