I Used to Like People

I used to be so gregarious, so social, so interested in other people - so much like my mother. But, as I get older, I now find my self turning into a serious misanthrope - much more like my dad. Lately, I have started to really listen to myself as I go on and on about the stupidity of this person or the irritating qualities of that person and I wonder, "what the fuck is happening to me?!"

I mean, I have friends and a relatively active social life. But, I find that increasingly I just don't like people anymore. The more I think about the problem, the more I realize that it all started when I began taking mass transit/commuting to work.

When I was growing up in Phoenix (a city but not a real city), I didn't mind crowds. I loved chatting up strangers and being places where I could meet new, interesting people. Then, after college when I began working in San Francisco, my interest in these things waned. And then I moved to DC.

DC is a really cool city. It's very young - very alive. But, it's also very full of self-important, self-aggrandizing tools. You hear it all the time on the Metro. People (especially those just out of college and working on the Hill) love to name drop. They tend to think they are literally the most important, most irreplaceable person on the face of the planet. Dare I say, many of them feel they are as (if not more) important than the politician they work for.

And because DC is such a cool city, we are infested with tourists for 9 months of the year. When Winter ends, two plagues descend on the city: the bugs the size of small vermin and tourists who have never seen the following:

Escalators
Light rail or subway systems
Malls with more than four stores
Homeless people

How do I know they have never seen these things? Simple - they take photos of them. And they always seem to manage to be in the way while doing so.

So what's a girl to do? I can't move, and even if I did, I can't go back to suburban city living. I could drive to work (thus avoiding the throngs of humanity I must interact with on mass transit), but the car takes premium and gas is more than $4.00/gallon. I guess I have no choice. I just need to resign myself to the fact that I am turning into my father (but hopefully without the mustache).

Please Do Not Disturb the Urbanite in Her Natural Environment

April is upon us, and for those of us in D.C., that means cherry blossoms, allergies and the official start of tourist season. I'm as happy for the warm weather sans impending humidity as the next gal, but I hate this time of year.

At some point when you were a youngster--for me it was like 7th grade--your school thought it was a good idea to take you to our nation's capital and brainwash you with a fine bouquet of patriotism with the faintest hint of xenophobia. You looked at monuments, visited museums, and more than anything enjoyed being away from your parents and sleeping in the same hotel where your crush was, even if there were like 30 chaperones between you and him, ready to pounce at the faintest scent of hormones.

Never did you consider the fact that that bicameral legislature that you're admiring has a whole staff of people who live and work in D.C. and keep that thing running. And that that legislature has a whole lot of corporate interests that wish to influence it and employ an army of people to do so. And that news organizations cover the relationship between the two, which they do by being chock full of staff. And that all of those staffers need to eat and shop and see movies somewhere and that there are a whole host of people who FRIGGIN' LIVE HERE AND THE CITY IS NOT A PLAYGROUND OF STATUES BUILT FOR YOUR TOURISTY AMUSEMENT! YOU DIDN'T CONSIDER IT, DID YOU!??!

Sorry, I get a little worked up. And I'm still pissed that Granny O'Grimm didn't win the Oscar for Best Animated Short. Anyways, my point is, as a tourist and visitor to this place, you should respect the local customs and try not to annoy the city's natural population--the urbanite.

Those things aren't modern day black magic, they're called escalators. And while they are, in fact, very long, they are not a photo opportunity. Kindly stand on the right and walk on the left or suffer my wrath. Oh, oh, you think I won't curse at your five year old who is "adorably" trying to run up the down escalator during morning rush hour traffic when I am running 15 minutes late to work? You are so fucking wrong.

As with most wild animals, the best way to avoid a mauling, is to keep a respectful distance from the beast, and the best way to do that, is to recognize it. So, with the help of 2B1B's graphic designer in residence AO, I give you....


The urbanite may have any or all of the evolutionary advantages listed above. And in addition to the flip flops, she may also be carting high heels in a reusable grocery bag because the guy at CVS isn't asking you if you'd like paper or plastic, he's asking you if you'd like to pay $0.05 or just manage to carry your purchases on your own without murdering the planet.

The urbanite is well adapted to her environment. Sorry tourist, I'm not even looking at you. I can't tell that you're lost and need directions. I'm staring at something else disdainfully behind these sunglasses. Oh, that homeless dude was asking me for money? I thought he was waving and helpfully providing a back beat to my ipod with his coffee cup full of change. PETA chick, I would take your stupid little flyer filled with oddly racist arguments about why animal cruelty is bad if my hands weren't so damn full with this coffee and this Blackberry.

It's best to allow a perimeter around the urbanite and to stay out of her direct path--the urbanite doesn't waver and stupid little high school girls in their school shirt who failed to get out of my way while I was walking to work this morning may have gotten knocked on her ass in a crosswalk only to have her teacher cursed at about the proper time and place for tourists when she tried to scold me. Spill my coffee on me and pay the price--I have theater tickets for tonight. You're just going to the fucking Spy Museum.