Feeling seen in the play

It’s a funny thing, living in a tourist area. When we first moved here, in 2015, I loved it. The beach is a five-minute walk away and every Sunday, a fresh batch of tourists would arrive at the surrounding hotels, elated to finally be in paradise. It gave my everyday a little of echo of vacation times. But something seemed to change after the pandemic. I still love that the beach is a five-minute walk away and that I get to see the ocean every time I drive home, but six years in from the pandemic’s start and it's all getting a little...tiresome. 

I can think of a number of reasons that probably contribute to my aggravation—noise, a general lack of consideration from the general population, the multiple assaults on my senses from so many different sources, perimenopause (did I mention this shit is crazy?). My experience one morning last year, as I walked to a coffee shop to get some work done (before I went back to an office job), is a prime example. I don’t blame the salesperson. I was truly impressed, to be honest, which is why I wrote down notes first thing when I finally got to the coffee shop.

Living in a tourist area, I’m pretty good at avoiding eye contact and just walking, even if I do try to give a little in-my-wake smile and a “have a good day.” But as I passed that morning, I think I didn’t walk quite fast enough and clever individual, he caught me out with a completely unrelated question that for some reason I felt compelled to answer. 

Miss, your bag, where did you get it?

My bag? This bag?

I was prepared to tell him I bought it online and keep walking, but he approached me and pointed to a little crocheted robin that I had hung from the backpack.

This little thing here.  (I’m sorry, my accent. I’m from Switzerland.) It’s so cute. It’s lovely. I have kids and they like things like this, handmade things.

Ah. Unfortunately, I got this in London, so…

London!  Are you from there?

No, I’m from here.

It’s so far, too expensive.

Yeah, for me, too!

How did you like it? Was it cold?

Not too cold. It was summer. It was good. I liked it.

I kept checking my back pockets to make sure I still had the wallet and phone I was carrying. I couldn’t help imagining some kind of elaborate bait-and-switch because I’m dramatic like that sometimes. I swear I live most of my life up in my head.

They’re really busy in London.

Yeah. It’s a different vibe than here, you know?

The conversation continued like this until he must have thought I was sufficiently engaged, because he brought up the skin unguent of some kind that he had samples of and started talking about sunscreen and gesturing to my face and talking about rosacea level 5, which is really bad, you know? He was going to give me a sample. I didn’t have to buy now, I could go online and he’ll give me a coupon for a 5% discount. I didn’t have to include his name or anything.

I should have walked away then. I should have known. I wanted to get some work done (I’m a master procrastinator) and I was finally feeling some kind of motivation. He was so smooth in his transitions, playing on my not wanting to be rude. I used to be in sales—I sold Rosetta Stone language software from a kiosk in two different malls on opposite sides of the country—and I should have been more wary.

(For the record, I never approached anyone when I worked at Rosetta Stone. I just sat there and smiled at people who forgot not to make eye contact. And I used the software on the big tv set up for the purpose. That was the best way to draw people in, actually--for them to actually see it in use. Except when the open-air bar on the floor above the open-air mall I worked in started playing their music at such ungodly levels that I couldn't even hear the cacophony of my own thoughts... But I digress...)

Within a minute, over my weak protestations, I found myself inside the store, in a chair, letting him put this eye cream whatchamajig around my left eye. All the while, he spoke smoothly and quickly, asking if I had kids and their ages. Telling me he wouldn’t have guessed I had kids so old since I look so young and sharing that he had three little ones at home. Interspersed with the casual I’m-interested-in-who-you-are was talk about the eye cream and its benefits for someone like me.

How old are you? I’m sorry for asking. How old are you?

I’m 47.

Yeah, I could tell a little. I’m sorry, don’t hate me, but as you can see, the difference with this cream, it’s taken away the bags and the circles, you can see between the two eyes, right?

First I look young and then my 47-year old skin betrays me? That back corner of my mind noted the contradiction. But then he quickly moved into how I would bless him when I saw how well the cream worked, but I shouldn’t kiss or hug him because his wife works nearby and she’s Italian, so…

And of course I had to share that I’m half-Italian and yes we can be a little much (M would certainly agree) and it was just enough for me to let him continue, though I was really trying to find an exit route when he started to talk about the price. Classic sales strategy. It’s expensive, this magical cream. Online it’s $1200, but here, now, I can give it to you for 60% off. And I have this customer, insert name of woman I can’t remember, who I’m supposed to give a deal to, but I’ll give it to you, just don’t tell her. It will bring it down to $200. This isn’t the company, it’s just me, I’m the owner, I have six locations around here. And you know what, I’ll give you these other creams for free, but don’t tell anyone, okay? I know you’ll recommend me because you can see how well the cream works…and on…

I tried extricating myself, protesting that I have two private school tuitions to pay. He told me I was like his mother, always thinking of everyone else and wouldn’t I just allow myself a little something this one time? But I think he knew. So he relented. And though he tried to hide it, his manner became a bit more brusque, a bit more urgent to get me out. 

I went with some relief, wishing him luck. I meant it, too. He’s trying to make his way in the world, same as me, and he was impressive. Truly. So smooth, so friendly, so seemingly interested in hearing what I had to say. This is exactly what so many of us want—someone to show interest in us, to think we’re interesting enough to keep asking questions. Maybe that’s why I didn’t protest. Maybe that’s why I let myself sit in the chair when I had initially said I would wait outside for him to bring me samples. I’m not immune to wanting to feel seen and heard. Wanting to feel interesting enough that someone would ask me questions and listen to my answers.

But at the same time, he is catering to tourists who are at their leisure and have time to engage in the play. I needed to get some work done and as I walked away, I sighed at the lengthy interruption and wished again that I didn’t have to put armor on every time I walk out of the door, in an effort to protect my peace. It was nice to be seen for a moment, though, even if it was the play.