Ain't It A Bitch
Recently my friend Chris wrote:
One of my friends, an inveterate lurker of many blogs but a non-blogger herself, told me recently that she saw Bazima on the street: "She gave me the biggest, prettiest smile. It was like seeing a movie star!" Given all the props our beloved babe has been getting of late, it's probably only a matter of time. I could see her working a slightly-younger Parker Posey vibe, easy.
Really? Like seeing a movie star? That is so sweet. And highly flattering. Where'd she see me? What'd she look like? Maybe I'd 'member. Was I hitting on her? Is she sure that it was me and not that mysterious look-alike/Bazima Impersonator that seems to be roaming around my neighborhood (true story)?
Usually, whenever some passerby glares or stares or smirks at me on the street I naturally assume it's for one of two reasons. Reason One: I have something on my face. Reason Two: My outfit, despite how cute I thought it was in front of my bathroom mirror, in reality makes me look like I have Lara Flynn Boyle for a stylist.
It happens a lot. I'm not talking about strangers who smile at me. That's easy. Smile back. I'm not talking about getting Hot Hoochie Mama looks from horny guys passing by. I don't get those. I'm talking about the bazillion blank, utterly un-readable, full-on glares I get from men and women alike. When they don't smile and I don't know what they're looking at me for I tend to think the worst. And then I get annoyed. And then I say don't look at me under my breath like a crazy person. I have friends that will attest to hearing this.
It used to be really bad. My friend Shming would get annoyed with me whenever we were walking down the street and I'd ask her, "Is there something on my face?" She'd say no (unless of course, my nose was running or something) and then she'd ask why I was asking. "People keep staring at me. Not in a friendly way. They're just, like, glaring." Shming would tell me I was just taking it the wrong way. Walking around the city with My Friend Formerly Known As My Gay Boyfriend last summer was a hoot. For him. He got into the habit of counting how many people he saw looking at me and as the numbers grew, so did his laughter and enthusiasm. "There goes another one!" he'd call out. And, "OH MY GOD! It happened AGAIN!"
Other times I just let it roll. Or, if I'm in a good mood, I'll give a big fat sincere smile in the face of some bizarre frozen stare. I'm trying to get better about The Glares thing. But now, evidently, there's this potential online recognizability factor possibly factoring in.
So, listen. If you think you see me don't say, "Hey! Aren't you..." if I look really bad because then I'll be horribly embarrassed and beat myself up over why in the world I chose to go out of the house looking like a mole. But if I look okay, don't be shy! Say hello! Maybe you'll get mentioned on this site. Maybe you can get your picture taken with me. (Maybe there should be a Bazima Sightings Website. "Possible Bazima sighting, February 4, 2002: Undereye-baggy snot factory with Miss B-like hair standing on corner of 1st Avenue and St. Mark's waiting to cross the street." Is it Bazima or is it the Look-alike? And which one's cuter?)
And my friends wonder why I take so long to get ready just to go out for some of the Sunday brunch. If I'm gonna get The Glares, I should feel I look okay enough not to care. And what with the website, do I not have a reputation to uphold? A public persona to represent? No wonder why I'm so tired.
At least now I can blame fame for my neuroses. Definitely. My fame is to blame.
