Ugh. Awkward.

My life is totally awkward. Not in a good way. Like in a really awkward way. It's a good thing that my only emotional response to awkwardness is laughter, or I would spend a lot of time being upset, shocked, or whatever other emotional responses to awkwardness that exist. I don't even know what they are, that's how consistently I giggle over them. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Anyway...

Last Saturday, my sister and I went to the symphony. One of the greatest things about going to the symphony is that it's an opportunity to wear pretty clothes. You can put on a nicer outfit than just something that's "cute." You get to put on a dress and heels. I usually wear makeup. (Gasp, people. This is shocking & rare.) We were dolled up as usual.

I was sitting calmly in my seat (also quite the feat for me!), when two men filed into the row in front of us. One of the guys looked at my chest (oh, don't even think about noticing a girl's face! Start with her chest!) and then proceeded to bend over, still looking. He was bending over at the waist, looking for an angle to look up my skirt.

Yes, you read that right. He was trying to look up my skirt.

It became especially funny because he kept having to bend farther and farther over because, you see, my skirt was knee-length. He wasn't terribly smart because it took him a while to realize that no amount of bending over was going to give him the right angle to see up my skirt. My skirt was simply too long. He wrinkled his forehead, straightened up, shrugged (never looking at my face, mind you) and proceeded to sit down next to the other guy. Then, imagine my surprise when he began blatantly publicly displaying his romantic affection for the other man. Dude, you were just trying too look up my skirt. Don't try to pretend that this makes it all ok. It's still weird.

But whatever. Pervy dude. I moved on.

After enjoying a couple of hours of Beethoven and Brahms, my sister and I headed back to the parking structure. We were in the throng of well-dressed, symphony-departing, generally middle-aged and downright old crowd, but we ended up waiting at a corner for the "white man of walking" (as I affectionately refer to him) to give us permission to cross the street. As we stood there, the line of cars turning right slowly passed us. A car, one away from the light, suddenly turned on some very loud, very percussion-heavy, melody-lacking music. The driver rolled down his windows. Then he drove past us reeeeeally slowly, while intently staring at us. He was also smiling. He was in an old, but fuzzy-interiored car. He was wearing one of those perky hats, a sweatsuit, and had generously accessorized major bling. And he was black. I don't say that last part to be racist, but it's integral to this guy's image, I think. He nodded at us, winked, and proceeded on his way.

Me and my sister and I looked at each other, mirroring each other's shocked, but highly amused expressions. This is the conversation we had:

me: "We just got checked out by a pimp."
her: "Yeah."
(short pause)
her: "Maybe he wasn't a pimp..."
me: "You know what they say about ducks? Looks like a duck, quacks like a duck...?"
her: "Well, maybe that doesn't apply to pimps."

(You can tell even from this short exchange how nice my sister is about people that are different than her. I'm like Judgey McJudger over here.) 

Yes. So that was our Saturday night. It was awkward. The end.