Subtle, Intrusive and Dangerous

I was born with a gift.  FBI and CIA profilers would likely study me if they knew about my secret.  I would be trained, a weapon in stilettos.  I can't turn it off.  I can't ignore it and I usually don't tell anyone about it.  

Until now.

I know what's wrong with you.

It saddens me that almost everyone can be classified into categories that have become mainstream and predictable.  You've got your Narcissists, your OCD's, your ADD's, your Bipolars, your Manics, your Sociopaths and about six hundred other classifications that are less interesting.  I will sometimes, although rarely, put you in one of these categories.  My diagnosis is usually something more defined.  

This, dear readers, is a glimpse into the inner workings of my mind.  

You've been warned.

Lorena is the head teller at the bank where I transact all sorts of business.  She's a petite Latina with clear skin and a knack for irritating me.  She oversees all the lowly regular tellers and steps in to her little window box to clear the line when it gets too long.  Lorena lets you know that she's not a normal teller, although she doesn't know that I'm not a normal customer.  She can't be bothered with cashiers checks or wires, she's that important.  After she helped the Urine Man (there's one every week), she shuffled my papers quickly and interrupted me before I could tell her I had both a deposit and a wire.  

"I have to place a hold on this check." She held it up to the plexiglass that kept her safe from me and allowed her to be stinky.  Stinky, bitchy, not stinky stinky.  "So, you won't be able to do the wire."

I was annoyed and my brain started clicking, tabulating, "The wire is for $400.  There's enough in the account to cover it."

"Oh.  Ok, well I don't do wires."

I stared at her blankly, "For me or just in general?"

"You'll have to see Sarah to do a wire."  She couldn't even be bothered to make eye contact and pushed my deposit receipt under the plexiglass.  I wondered if tellers would be nicer to people if there was no glass that kept them from getting punched in the nose, no glass that brought about a false sense of confidence.

As Sarah processed my wire I overheard Lorena telling the teller next to her how the pee guy yelled at her through the glass.  I happened to catch the eye of the customer next to me who apparently had the same train of thought, No, he did not say that, Drama.

I shook my head as I left and my brain summed up it's calculations as I padded across the institutional carpet.   Like the fortune telling machine from the movie Big, I imagined my mouth to open and a teller receipt to appear on my tongue, Lorena diagnosed:

You suffer from low self-esteem and a need to feel interesting.  You are given to exaggerations and chronic white lies.  You want to be important, but realize that you're not.  Middle child, Know It All.

Ding.  Like that.

I recently met a single fellow, cute and smart.  He was tall and could be caught standing, posed like an Old Navy model, at any turn.  Over the course of a few days he told me a little about his dating life and some of the silly run-ins that only singles or those who were serial daters prior to marriage can really understand.  They usually begin with, "I was at this bar, having a few drinks..."  We talked about his job, very important and his frustration with women.

Like a Stepford Wife my head tilted to the right one evening and he too was diagnosed:

You are very analytical and your job is to look for flaws.  You do that with girls too.  You're looking for what could possibly be wrong before you allow yourself to revel in all that is right.

Ding.  

Last week I was walking from lunch to my office building downtown and I suddenly interrupted my boss with a startled hiss, "What do we have here?"

She looked up to see our favorite Starbucks barista, fresh-faced and adorable, with a handsome young man in a suit.  They were walking down the street, his hands deep in his pockets and she with the glow of a girl newly enamored.  She looked over and gave a smile, a wave and that knowing look.  You know the one.

The next day I walked into Starbucks to find her giggly and gushing, "What do you think about my date?"

"He's cute!  Does he work in the building?

"Across the street."

"Lawyer?

"Yes."

I laughed, "They always are."  

"Did I look stupid?  He's all handsome and I'm wearing coffee clothes.  I could barely carry on a conversation.  He makes me so nervous!"

"You did not look stupid!  You looked adorable!"

One of the other baristas laughed and called me a liar, "She gets so dumb and stumbles all over her words whenever he's around."

"That's a good sign!  And, if it is any consolation, he looked nervous too."

She smiled graciously, "I thought so."

The following week I found her smile wan and her tone ambivalent when I asked her what was happening with Lover Boy.

"I haven't heard from him.  We went out for dinner on Friday night and here its Tuesday and I haven't heard a word.  He hasn't even come in for coffee."  She looked pained.

I pursed my lips in thought, "He didn't call or text you on Saturday?"

"He did text to say he had a great time.  I hate this part.  I don't want to be the girl that text stalks him, but he's not texting or calling me.  I just can't worry about it."  She shrugged, convincing no one.

I chewed on the inside of my lip as she handed me my latte, "Ok, its only Tuesday.  We'll talk tomorrow.  We'll take this a day at a time."

As I walked to the elevator my mind was dinging and hissing.  

She's a romantic, naive and sweet.  She's a good girlfriend, but she lets the guy take control of the relationship.  She's likely drawn to narcissists.  She likes him, but she's been hurt before.  And then words I usually don't hear popped into my head, I have to help her.  Without her knowing.

I worked over our plan as I held a MAC brush in my hand the next morning and shook my hips to the newest Rick Ross song playing on my iPod.  As I smudged concealer under my eyes I stared at myself in the mirror, She can't let this whole 'don't be that girl' thing keep her from love.  She has to text him today.  If he doesn't respond or blows her off then we'll know.

I walked in, the smell of caffeine, sweet caffeine, in the air, "Ok, what's the story?"

She grabbed my tall cup and began marking the boxes, "We have a date!  He came in this morning and said he wanted to take me to dinner and a movie."

"Oh good!  Don't be afraid to text or call him.  If you like him don't worry about the rules.  Well, don't worry about the rules if your normal.  If you're a six texts an hour kinda girl you may need to worry about rules."

She laughed, "No, I'm pretty normal."

"I thought so."

I left Starbucks, latte in hand, and worried for my barista.  I know the suave attorneys in Las Vegas.  Granted, he was a little young and nerdy, an associate at most.  The one that languished me with attention at the very same Starbucks many years before was a partner and thirteen years my senior.  I giggled, I swooned and he did not text, did not call and made me feel pretty stupid.  I suddenly felt parental as I shook My Attorney from my head and thought of the skinny little boy with the fancy suit.  Everything became clear.  I just need to meet Her Attorney and I'll know what his intentions are, if he's an only child and whether he's a love her and leave her kind of guy. 

I smiled to myself as I thought of my plan.  Not everyone can do this kind of thing without being considered a busy body.  Thankfully I don't have to ask any questions to be able to assess Her Attorney.  I'll just ring him up like a pack of Fruit Stripe gum.    

The trick, you see, is to be subtle.  

Subtly intrusive.