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Don’t worry about what you hear; you know you

It all happened so quickly. It was over nearly before it started.

“Are we the only ones in here?” I faintly heard one gal ask another from my stall at the far wall end of the ladies room.

“I think so,” came the somewhat muted reply as I tried to whip up a sham sneeze in attempts to be transparent whilst not looking like a double-agent of the KGB (i.e. covertly eavesdropping).

Hey, do they still call Russia’s version of the FBI the KGB? Not like I’d understand a newer moniker anyway. I don’t even know what KGB stands for… I digress.

I didn’t get out one spec of faux phlegm before I heard gal No. 1 continue: “What do you think of that chick with the black hair?”

At that, major mucus DID well up inside my throat — along with a fist-size lump of “holy crap” since that would — or could — be me. I do indeed have black hair. Well, not technically.

To be clear, my main mane has long since ashened over; I’m totally gray in actuality. But, thanks to the lovely ladies at L’Oreal, my hair remains as black as midnight.

Kind of like gal No. 1’s ticker, perhaps?

“Oh, I think she seems nice?” came gal No. 2, now known as my hero. Let’s call her Captain Marvel.

“Hmm. I don’t know. I think she’s kind of… eh. I’m just not sure about her…” trailed the voice of Moonstone, aka, the archnemesis of Captain Marvel. And perhaps of PK?

Boy, I thought Joan Jett’s backup band were the Blackhearts. Sheesh!

Yet, as much as I wanted to know if (A) they were talking about me and (B) Moonstone dislikes me and why, I couldn’t help but feel equally tempered by the trepidation of how much I DIDN’T want to know. You know?

Sigh.

“Heck, she hasn’t even known me long or well enough to decide if I’m a stupid head?” I thought as I finished um, composing myself.

“I mean, aren’t I one of the good guys?” I asked me.

We agreed that I’m pretty OK, as humans go.

But then, one of us reminded the other about looking at things from another’s perspective.

Sure, after we’ve been cut off in traffic, short-changed at the drive-through or shunned by a selective-hearing spouse who acknowledges no words emitted from my mouth until such time as another human selects to interact with me (this from the same person who hasn’t heard a word I’ve said since circa 1998), we tend to feel like the injured party.

Shoot, we sorta always feel that way, right? But the truth is, we ain’t. And everyone’s got a right to their opinion.

Moonstone probs has her reasons for not liking the mystery brunette who may or may not be me.

Maybe I accidentally stepped in front of her in the hallway or unknowingly parked in “her spot”? Maybe my hair is just that offensive in and of itself. Think Medusa without the actual hissing ends. Ugh.

The point is, not only do I really NOT want to know how that sentence ultimately ended, but it’s also just none of my beeswax.

And I’m OK with that, since I know me, and I mean well toward the other earthlings. Plus, I’ll eventually win her over with my PK-ness!

If not, I’ll just finish up in the lav with all the other nice guys… last.

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