by Jenny McCracken
What lies beneath is my Monday-evening, post-yoga trauma. I thought you all might enjoy it. And if you don’t, screw you.

(Sheesh. i’m kidding. Diane, put down your dukes).

So, there I was, standing at the streetcar stop on Dundas bemoaning the hours upon hours of my life spent on waiting for the TTC, when I saw her. She was a compact package. Shorter than me; about 5’2”, wearing a tight pencil-skirt and fuck-me heels that seemed high enough to boost her into the Heavens, if, you know, Heaven was the place where those College-Girls-Gone-Wild pornos are made (which, of course, it is). She had the kind of body that makes a person—male or female—stop for a second and think, “God, damn”. Boobs out to here, ass out to there. She truly was sex personified: the angles of her calves, the cleavage of her toes bound by those tight, hot stilettos, the arch in her back and the way her hand was obstinately placed on her hip as if to challenge, “Come on, I dare you. I fucking dare you.” If she was a sandwich, she would be slow-roasted pulled-pork on a hot, round, soft bun with spicy peppers and gravy that would drip from the meat, on to your chin and down to your Armani dress shirt and you wouldn’t give a fuck because, holy shit, you’ve never had a sandwich like this before.

Now, I get that I look like a lesbian sometimes. I also get that I make comments about girls that, while are not particularly lesbian-esque, aren’t exactly those of a girl who really, really does love dong like I do. In my defence, let me say this: I am a visual type. I like to look at people and appreciate beauty in all of it’s forms. Also, I’m fairly easy and am not opposed to rubbing off on some hot girl’s thigh if the situation calls for it. But truly, this isn’t what I was thinking as I watched this little, tight composition of curves and stretch-cotton.

I was actually hating her. I was hating the way she dangled her laptop bag from her wrist as she texted whatever boy she had on the agenda tonight. I was particularly, internally, puking at what I assumed was her life. She is a receptionist, perhaps for a financial company on Bay St. Or she is a bank teller at TD (they have the most do-able employees). She shares a condo with a girlfriend and goes rock climbing on Saturdays. She uses perfume that smells like something one would eat, I.e. creme brulée, strawberry shortcake or cotton candy. She drinks Malibu and let’s loose with the girls on Friday nights at This is London or Fluid Lounge. Sex in the City is her favourite T.V. show and the esteemed award for her favourite book is tied between “The Life of Pi” and Cosmopolitan’s Bedside Astrologer. Mother fuck, was I ever hating her.

Then she turned to look at me. I thought, “OK, so, girlfriend is looking at me. Why wouldn’t she? I’m practically burning holes straight through her skull.” The moment passes when most people look away, and she is still maintaining eye contact. So, I did what I do: I gave her The Chin. Its a manoeuvre I do when I feel like I need to be a little masculine and stand-offish. Not only does it offer acknowledgement but it also says that I don’t really care enough to speak to you.

That is when she said something and immediately started to laugh. It wasn’t a giggle, it was a full-on laugh. Like, you know that part in Dumb and Dumber when Harry eats a whole mess of Turbo Lax and he’s in the toilet having the groadiest diarrhea and lets out this really squeaky, high-pitched fart? Ya, she laughed at herself like we all laugh at that part of The Greatest Movie Ever Made.

Nothing is that funny.

So, I got closer to her, held my breath so as not to smell her cheap perfume, and said, “What??”

Something about the streetcar. She said something about the streetcar. Great. So I said something back and made a move to put in my earphones. “I don’t want to get in to it with this one,” I thought.

The next thing you know, everything I said, and everything she said, was as funny as a squeaky fart. To her, that is. We got on the streetcar and she sat her sex machine body next to me with a big “Yay! I am so happy to meet a new friend!”

“Oh God,” I thought. The universe is drastically maligned right now. No one looks at me and thinks, “She looks like a nice person. I bet she’s fun. Ya, she looks like she’s in to booze cans and shopping for thongs together. Totally.”

I highly value this perception because it keeps the wackos at bay and allows me the anonymity I love. But, as I discovered tonight, the joke is on me because it’s the real over-the-top nutters who fail to pick up on my cold shoulder and inevitably sit beside me on the streetcar, spouting devastating shit like, “What’s your number so we can hang out!?” and “I’m going to add you on Facebook!” There was also a statement that I am becoming all to familiar, but none too comfortable, with: “You’re 32!? But you look so young!”

To which I think, “Ya, fuck you. No seriously. Can I fuck you?”

I won’t allow her to spend the night though.