This morning, as usual, I walked into my work building, as usual.
The end.
No, there’s a story and a question. I walked into the elevator lobby of my building, as usual. There are a couple of people already waiting for the elevator, as usual – a gray haired guy and a young black woman – and joining them, some woman who walked in with me.
There’s the typical office worker guy, shirt carefully tucked in, clean shoes, belt and such. He has some sort of satchel with his important work papers and whatnot. His longish hair has prematurely whitened, and he sports a goatee. His friends probably considered him pretty cool until he bought and justified the minivan. Probably plays bass. He presses the fourth floor button.
There’s the young black woman who appears to be in pretty good shape but has that finger-in-the-dike physique that suggests that one day soon she will wake up 300 pounds heavier. She sports a shoulder tattoo that looks more like a Sharpie sneezed on her. And, because the tattoo is only like two shades darker then her skin, it looks like complete shit. No contrast, no detail. Just shit. Deal breaker. She selects the sixth floor.
The woman that came in with me is what you would simply call normal looking. You wouldn’t be able to pick her out of a line-up. “Uh, she had, uh, hair, and she looked like, uh, a woman. She was white, I remember that.” Neither pretty nor ugly, just another late-20s, early-30s white woman. An extra in a film. Flip-flops (of course those suck), skirt, probably a toe ring (which absolutely sucks) or some such trite decoration, and a regular old summer top. Her top was something like a spaghetti-strap tank, probably cotton. Seventh floor.
I’m on the eighth floor (a clever elevator guy would have said, “hey, I guess I’m on the local, huh?). It’s a humid morning. It’s August in DC, it’s what I expect. I don't say a word. I’m wearing shorts because I don’t care.
Okay, we’re all on the elevator, the four of us until the fourth floor. No sooner did the doors close than flip-flop plain Jane starts, and I don’t know what to really call it, she starts…swabbing herself. Wiping herself with some sort of pad or wiper thingy. Okay, it’s humid, so you dab a little sweat off right? No, this woman was wiping her face. She wiped her arms. She wiped her chest. She wiped her shoulders. After the white guy left, she continued to wipe (he glanced my way as he left). After the black woman left, Jane continued to wipe (the black woman gave a classic "oh no you di’nt" glance).
So here I am alone with the wiper on the same side of the elevator. After the black woman left Jane – as is NORMAL – moved over to the other side. But what is NOT normal is she continued wiping herself and now it’s directly in my field of vision. I want to say, “What the hell are you doing?” And to top it off, as she’s exiting the car, she licks the pad or wiper thingy and wipes her eyebrows.
I felt dirty. And, not the good dirty.
So, here’s my question: Is this some ill human behavior or what?
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