One of my favorite hobbies/past times/time wasters is people-watching. Not in the traditional sense, of course — I think my version would constitute as ‘voyeurism’ in legal-speak, so let’s just leave it at that.
My problem is whilst involved in people-watching activities, I become so absorbed as to forget that:
a) I am in a public space.
b) Staring is perceived as weird/bizarre by said public.
c) I need to stop staring before the restraining orders blossom like Texas bluebonnets on the highway to Dallas.
Thus, I am attempting to create miniature stories with each of the individuals I ‘watch’ (for the lack of a better term) — keep it short and simple so that my behavior is easily concealed and still within the confines of legality. For instance:
At the Annual Ice Sculpture Competition in downtown, I stood at the metal rails surrounding the participating teams. Obviously, I was enthralled by the sculptors and their quickly-melting-medium. It’s no easy feat to carve mountainous blocks of ice in 80 degree weather, so the attempts — although futile — were mesmerizing. Nonetheless, the obvious presence of this woman in my right-hand field of vision was extremely difficult to ignore.
She wasn’t petite, approximately 5’6” and on the slender side physically, but the bothersome aspects of this woman was her overtly ambitious method of appearing trendy.
That’s right, I said it. She was being friggin’ TRENDY.
In all honesty, her leggings-as-pants attire combined with the crop top weren’t garnering my attention; rather, the faux-fur vest and gratuitous accessorizing screamed “I’m a hipster and I just can’t hide it!” and I couldn’t. look. away.
I guess her need/desire for attention begs the question: Why? For Pete’s sake, if you’re craving attention at such as level as to turn yourself into a public pariah, you were probably not hugged sufficiently as a child. Or you have dolla’ bills burning the lining of that LV satchel hanging in the crook of your arm. This intense need to be an attention-getter turns any semblance of personality into a mere joke. The entire bane of one’s existence becomes dependent upon scoring a slot on a fashion blog or being featured on Page 6. I can’t be the only one having difficulty wrapping my head around this notion.
Of course, I began concocting a nice little scenario to explain the state of her appearance. Perhaps she was trying to be an uber hipster, or maybe the outfit was part of a dare from Generic Style Magazine. Maybe she was vying for a spot in Glamour’s List of Don’ts. Or maybe it was Laundry day.
The spell her outfit has cast upon my line of sight was broken by the Boy’s voice as he excitedly spotted the Godzilla sculpture that was now emerging.
I guess I should be paying more attention to that.