Displaced Hip Girl

 

(this really has nothing to do with this post. but the birds are flying off my dress!)

 

I very rarely take the train unless I really have to.  For one, I hate public transportation.  People are the worst and I'm incredibly impatient and every trip seemingly takes forever.  I will always prefer walking, a cab (although pricey) or getting a ride if someone is being extra nice.  For two, I actually rarely go anywhere else but my neighborhood and the surrounding neighborhoods.  What's the point?  I don't shop so much anymore, I barely go out drinking and if I do, there is only one bar I go to and it's down the street.  Long story short (is it, thought?), I very rarely take the train unless I really have to. 

The other day, however, I did have to.  I went to Allston, where all the hip kids live.  As soon as I walked off the train, I just thought, "I don't belong here."  Though, technically, you would think that I would.  I wear big glasses, I have tattoos, bangs... I was even wearing a plaid shirt.  But, I just didn't feel okay there.  

I had to wait an hour for my tattoo appointment, so I went to a coffee shop to get a drink.  I forgot my headphones and my notebook.  I always have a notebook on hand... because if I don't write down sketch ideas, then they'll be gone forever... but I was forced to brainstorm ideas on an ENVELOPE.  If I didn't feel out of place before, well I certainly did then.  

I overheard conversations (as eavesdropping is one of my favorite things to do) and heard one girl talking about a bar she went to that had a cool name and who she was with, and all of her friends had awesome nicknames.  Like "Jazz" or "Binney."  I mean, I guess those are awesome nicknames.  My friends are named normal names like "Ryan" "Kelly" or "Wack."  She had a half-sleeve tattoo that didn't match her pink shorts, black tank top and long blonde hair... but did match her deep voice from smoking too many cigarettes and long night of PBR drinking.

I knew everyone hated me.  No, they did.  I know for a fact because when I texted Casey about feeling out of place and everyone hating me he said, "Don't worry, it's fine! But yes, everyone hates you."  I knew everyone could tell that I just found the plaid shirt I was wearing at the bottom of my shirt drawer and that I wear my glasses because I actually have bad eyesight and that my tattoos are actually just colored pencil drawings taped to my skin!

Eventually, I got my tattoo, I pretended that I don't still listen to Backstreet Boys and I got the hell out of there.  I returned to the North End where I belong... with the oldest Italian grandmothers, men sitting on lawn chairs in the middle of the street and people falling over on street corners after their visit to the local methadone clinic.  Ah, yes... right where I belong.