I had plans for Favorite Things Monday, but after my train ride this morning, those plans were tossed aside. You see, at stop #2 the most beautiful boy tossed his Louis Vuitton bag onto the middle seat, swung his oversized sunglasses up to the top of his head, and sat down in the aisle seat. Actually, he perched, because someone this beautiful does not simply sit.
Every time I had the opportunity, I stole a glance to grab another detail. Hair? Skin? Eyes? Clothes? Shoes? Bag? Louis Vuitton attache. Sunglasses? Christian Dior. What is he reading? Jackie Collins Lovers and Players (of course). After seeing the book, I was tempted to slip this note into his bag:
Only at the end of the train ride did I realize why I was obsessing about this boy: I have a thing for well-groomed androgynous boys. My name is FemiKnit Mafia and I like Pretty Boys. It all started with this guy -- my first boyfriend:
We started pseudo-dating in 6th grade, when he moved into my school district and I practically assaulted him with my subtle-as-a-sledgehammer preteen sexual advances. We broke up at the end of 8th grade because I realized he was gay. Of course, at the time, calling him gay was an insult, in addition to completely presumptuous. As it turns out, I was right. If only I'd had such insight into my own identity, I could've saved some other teenaged boys the embarassment of lackluster sex. Or perhaps they didn't even notice?
Anyway ... my little Pretty Boy this morning reminded me of my first love, and there is something terribly sweet about that. I wanted to protect him. To pet his lintless black double-breasted wool jacket. To squeeze his perfectly tanned little cheeks. To treat him like a paperdoll and dress him in Diesel and Kenneth Cole.
But what do I look like to him? With my hair growing longer, my wattle getting fleshier, and my knitting in my lap, I probably looked like any other 30-something suburbanite. I wanted to yell, "hey, I'm a dyke! can't you see me in here? did you see my manly shoes, my white button-down shirt, and my confident stride?" Yeah, he probably did. He's observant. Pretty boys always observe, even if judgmentally. And to be honest, I didn't care.
But when the click-click of the conductor's hole punch got closer and I realized that this morning would be all the better because my conductor-crush was working my train, I began to care. Does this cute-super-cute lesbian conductor notice me? Hey cutie conductor - I'm in here! Look closely.
Perhaps that's my personal task for today: to stop caring and to look closely.
And yet, even as that idealistic goal is stated ... I still wish the wicked-cute lesbo conductor would notice me. Just one raised eyebrow, up-&-down assessment will satisfy me. See me? I'm cute!