Mean People Suck

Alright, so after the skirt incident earlier this week I figured NYC had given me the finger enough for me to be safe till next week...but NO.

Post arty party free booze hop with Zayan, we snarfed down some food at Don Giovannni's on 10th Avenue and I insisted we go to Shake Shack since he'd never been there and it was only 9pm on a fabulous Friday evening. Of course, we pass a Mister Softee truck and he can't resist so when we get to the obscene line neither of us wants to stand it despite the possibility of more drinking--so we wrap our legs around the narrow wooden bench on the outskirts of Shake Shack territory facing Seward standing guard of the southwestern edge of Madison Square Park.

As we look out, there is a gaggle of men standing around chatting animatedly. He dares me to find out who they are...my curiosity didn't require a dare but never one to back down from a challenge I swagger over and inquire with first one then another and finally a third group within the larger group of guys asking politely what the hub hub was about.

The first mini group insists that I guess...I come up with speed dating? They don't seem offended but they don't give me an answer and pawn me off to group two. Now being a sorority girl I get how rush works, so I quickly grow weary of the buck being passed in an evaulative context and hearing a range of explanations from we're here to rob a bank on Park Ave. to we're scientologists and finally we're an avator meetup who all adore Britney Spears.

As I walk away I can't shake the playground feeling of utter defeat and mass rejection, I start to cry. Violently--I've said this before, I am not beautiful when I cry--it's actually pretty ugly...I wail and my invisible ribs rattle. Poor Z. A fun errand has managed to sour itself passed the point of redemption.

I'm inconsolable. I kept repeating, "They were just so mean to me. I don't understand why they were so mean to me. No one would tell me." Finally, he just wraps his gangly arms around me and I whimper hopelessly into his puffy vest. It's that moment when words fail and only the simple action of holding someone will suffice--I was held and it sufficed. Once I got over the outburst, I relayed the utter dejection of not unearthing why they were thus gathered.

One of them--the lone Indian, who was passably gay--told me I looked like his aunt. HURTFUL. Another one asked of Z was my bf. A third queried if I thought they were all gay if it would be acceptable for one of them to hit on me. A fourth told me to send Z over instead of trying to figure it out myself. It was a classic and very real case of othering. Not that I haven't experienced being an "other" in a primary group but there was something vicious about the covert way this seemed to play out.

Z's guess was that they were gamers. Which I took to mean boys with poor social skills who play video games, but what he meant were d-bags who subscribe to THE GAME--that awful book that teaches men to get women--

I wanted to believe this because it would have comforted me greatly, but if this was true why were the being mean to THE ONE girl that approached the enormity of their group gathered in a public space. Wasn't that the point?

Z pointed out that they might have been "negging" me. Apparently a method of back handed complimenting that breeds insecurity in the party being "complimented" but sustains their interest. I have to tell you it sustained nothing. The very real playground metaphor was NOT lost on me but didn't keep me from crying any less when I got back to my friend on the bench. WAIL.