A Deer in Headlights

I was a helpless young lady. Stifled by the confusion of Korea Land, I was waiting desperately for a strong personality to swoop out from the shadows and guide me in the right direction. The utterances that spilled from my mouth, the words that flowed from my finger tips, the discreet slouch of my shoulders; collectively, they screamed out to the world: “Help me! I’m needy and dependent! Hold my hand, dammit!” All this time I’d foolishly considered myself to be strong. Independent. I see now I was just acting out in denial of the truth that lied beneath. I could have spent an entire lifetime not realizing that my entire being was a pretentious façade if not for the intervention of the President of Dyssemia Anonymous. Finally, my hand is being held.

Last week, for the first time in my life, somebody mistook me as dependent female looking for a pat on the back. I boarded a plane to Korea with less than 300 dollars to my name. I’m That Girl that spent half an hour wandering around a Quebec City parking garage by myself looking for an ATM at 2am, because when nobody volunteered to join I realized that my legs still had motion; the one that ate alone from time to time when living in university residence because I didn’t happen to be on the same hunger clock as everybody else; the one that traveled to New York City by herself three times; the one that has never seen the need to wait for others to fulfill her own needs. When I’m hungry, I eat. When I need money, I get the cash. If I need a washroom, I find a washroom. There is no shame in cherishing the company of others and knowing that you have people to lean on, but to use those people as hand holders to guide you through the walk of life is heavily dependent. Heavy dependence is weakness. I am not weak.

Cue another Friday Night.

The Plan had been to join The April and Shanna in Seomyeon for some coffee then jet off on the last subway. A lifetime of inability to budget had finally caught up to me in Korea. This meant that if I wished to eat through till payday Tuesday, a seriously hobo weekend was in store. As per usual, The Plan didn’t quite stick. I’m apparently a Yes Person; I’ll kick the hanging handles in subway cars for a dollar, and I’ll stay out past budget without needing to be asked twice. Coffee somehow turned into a trip to the Rock & Roll bar down the road. The Rock & Roll bar successfully combines a number of elements which I believe to be essential in considering where among the greatest places on earth a particular spot ranks: a sports package that carries hockey games, free mashed potatoes and gravy on Fridays, ginger ale, and playing cards. It was dropped from consideration on account of having an obscenely low Frat Boy to Barbie ratio, but remains high on my list of places to be. When presented with the option, The Plan died a swift death.

The April, myself and Shanna were having a discussion of inappropriate sorts when an acquaintance of theirs, Drunk Guy, joined us at the table. I’ve met Drunk Guy exactly two times, and each time he’s been boozed beyond belief. At 9pm. He was sharing with us his desire to get a website going which would provide a detailed database of how the male anatomy of foreigners in Korea measures up; this was his way of giving back to the women of the world, you see. This was terribly amusing, so his continued company was highly encouraged. Closely behind him followed Blonde Lady; her verbal dissertation detailing how her anatomy doesn’t allow for much girth was thoroughly entertaining, so we let her stick, too. Much to the dismay of anybody who was not a complete social retard, The President of Dyssemia Anonymous (Poda) followed shortly behind both. He rather sucked.

Every once in a while I am immediately weirded out by the mere presence of somebody that I’ve never before encountered. Within a split second, without them even having to utter a word, they are swiftly shifted from the ‘Nonexistent’ category to the ‘Note to self: sleep with one eye open” files. Something about Poda was so inherently creepy that I instantaneously felt the need to shower when he took a seat at our table. I hoped and prayed that if I failed to acknowledge him (beyond the base level of cordialness the situation called for) that he would think I sucked and not bother to engage me in conversation. This went about as well as the last time that I asked the universe for somebody who had similar tastes as me in beer and hockey teams.

Tragically, Poda apparently lacks the ability to read nonverbal cues. While one who is subject to this condition can receive formal training in order to improve the quality of their social relations, this man clearly had not. Being completely oblivious of his social shortcomings has made him not just creepy, but overbearingly arrogant. When Poda stopped creeping in the peripheral and leaned over to ask if he could take the chair beside me, I could hardly contain my excitement. My pants nearly hit the floor. My brain’s unfortunate habit of mistaking that potent combination of fear and disgust as sexual arousal has led to many a sticky situation. Thankfully, I caught myself just in time and curtly advised Poda that he could sit there if he wished.

As Poda shifted towards the chair, I immediately turned my attention to the person furthest away from him at the table. Speaking to Shanna meant that not only was I not speaking to Poda, but I was looking in the opposite direction of him. About a minute into the conversation I noticed that Poda had been lurking in my periphery, staring incessantly, totally engaged in a conversation that he was not a part of. I tired of this fairly quickly, halted my conversation with Shanna, and said: “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help but notice that you’re staring. It’s making me rather uncomfortable, so could you please stop?” Poda was completely taken aback. Didn’t I realize that he was people, too?

Now, I realize that in the off chance that my intuition was wrong here, and this guy was harmless, kind, and just a touch socially unaware, that I was being unnecessarily bitchy. My issue with him wasn’t that he was socially retarded; I only discovered that he completely lacked any clue whatsoever after my Creepdar had been activated. Given my propensity to refer to myself in writing as “Barbie”, I will be the last person to alienate another on account of questionable social skills. However, I will be the first to assert myself in a situation where I feel threatened in any way. Everything about Poda struck me as offensive and threatening. His demeanor, tone of voice, body language; all those elements of nonverbal communication that he failed to read in me, led to only one conclusion: This guy sucked. I wasn’t quite sure why he sucked, and I didn’t want to stick around him long enough to find out.

Understandably, Poda was offended with how I asserted myself towards him. Whether he was just trying to be friendly or blatantly hit on me mattered not; either way, I had just very publicly rejected whatever his interests in me were. Aghast, he looked towards The April and Shanna in disbelief. “Can you believe this? She’s accusing me of staring at her?” He was obviously clueless or hoping that they had somehow failed to pick up on his creep vibes. Shanna set him straight: “Well, then maybe you should quit staring at her”. Poda was in absolute disbelief. Whether he was shocked that other people noticed he was a creeper, or that he hadn’t won us over with his irresistible charm, is still in debate. I presume it was the former, as he spent the next minute trying to convince us of his good intentions.

Poda had been misunderstood, you see. I had stood out to him, from across the bar, as a “deer in headlights”. He saw me as a lost soul, new to the harsh world of Korea, looking for guidance that only he could provide. He swooped to our table, not to creep, but to show me the way. Couldn’t I see this? Did I think that I already “knew it all”? His ranting died fairly quickly, as I refused to respond to it in any way, not even batting an eye in his direction. Poda was pathetically looking for any sign of weakness that he could grab onto and pad his ego with. I’m not That Person. Realizing that I wasn’t biting, he took his coat and disappeared a few moments later; presumably so that he could go post over here about how the Western women in Korea are fat, bitchy, and not deserving of great men like him.

I received props from the remainder of the table for getting rid of Poda. We all agreed that while Barbie oozes Frat Boy Friendly Pheromones, that she leaves a waft of Creeper Mace in her trail. Not surprisingly, the quality of conversation picked up significantly after his departure.