"Hey there."
I look up.
Oh no, please don't be talking to me.
"What's your name?" he says after a stupidly obvious once-over and an attempt at a wink.
"Lauren."
Out comes my paranoid sensibility. Never tell a stranger your name.
I look away hoping that he'll get the hint and leave me alone. It's too early for this.
"My namesfemish." What? It doesn't matter. I nod politely and pretend to be enthralled by all the people walking by. He sticks out his hand. Ewww, gross. Please, please don't make me touch you.
"I wanted to ask you two things," he says after satisfying his need to spread all his germs into my palm. Great. Two things. As if I was acting interested or something.
"Do you want to buy some body products and do you have a boyfriend," he says in a mumbling manner. Body products? Like artifical limbs? No. Boyfriend? Yes, I lie.
But it doesn't end there. Of course, like many other solicitors, he continues to convince me that my non-existent boyfriend won't mind if we hook up.
Right.
This isn't him by the way
It's enough to make a rainy Monday morning that much more depressing. I don't know if it's just me, but situations like this are enough to make any girl feel uncomfortable. There is a fine line a subway picker-uper must not cross: Don't stand too close. Don't freak other person out by breathing on them. Don't solicit girls at 9 in the morning. Seems pretty obvious to me. But I guess it's not universal.
I was able to escape my solicitor by having my prayers answered for the subway to come as fast as possible. But it's not always that easy. Unwanted solictors are hard to shake off. It's a new breed of male, usually personified by googly-eyed old men you want nothing to do with. And I don't want to spread the wrong message here. Boys, it's completely cool to approach a girl in a public place.
Just don't be creepy about it.
And save it for after lunch.
.
.
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