the MIRREN LEE

The 2012 Act Three Journey of an Actress/Coach/Writer.

Day 100 Booty Call

Posted by themirrenlee on 09/04/2012

Booty call.

Evidently, that’s what the guy wanted. It’s made me so cranky because he’s the type of person who makes people with good Samaritan instincts walk on by instead, and ignore the wounded.

Sitting in the HELL where one goes to get a car registration transferred, surrounded by what felt like the population of China, all equally antsy and dismayed by the size of the crowd, I found little conversations popping up here and there between people. I always join in, unless I have a book, which I’d left behind this time.

I like to find out about people, and what they’re doing and why. The funny thing is, I’m totally anti social – I’m just curious (and sympathetic), but then I want to move on. I like my new hermit lifestyle, and don’t need any more people in my life. I do, however, have a huge Good Samaritan streak for people in pain, and sometimes it wrecks all the good work I’ve done in counselling to establish proper boundaries with people, instead of taking them home!

So there’s a kind of rhythm going on: “How long do you think it will be?”, “I have to get back to work,” “Do you think I should come back tomorrow?” “Why are there no clerks at the counter; is it afternoon tea?” (Yes, it was.)

A guy sits down in the only chair left, next to me. He’s a shortish guy in his fifties, maybe (I’m very bad with ages), who looks like he probably works with his hands. Really average looking. His name turns out to be Joe, which really suits him.

I notice he has transfer papers like mine, but his ticket letter is different, so I ask him if he’s transferring a car. I was actually thinking that maybe he got the wrong ticket. He mumbles yes, like he doesn’t want to talk, until I say that my ex mother-in-law gave me her car, and it’s proved to be a bit of a nightmare getting the paperwork sorted out. At this he kind of yelps, “Don’t talk to me about mother-in-laws!”

Okay, I think. Then he launches into a pain filled verbal hurling that tells me his wife has left him and he has to get the car transferred because of it, she was seeing another guy and they even took his kids to the movies with them so that the kids knew, and now they don’t respect him, and he had a cancer operation that removed his thyroid and “part of my manhood”, and he showed me the scar in his throat (not the other one, thank god), and said his mother-in-law told him she wished they’d slit his throat instead.

Again, I think … okay. Maybe a little too much information, but he’s in such pain that I feel sorry for him. He’s sitting just on the verge of tears. I tell him he needs a counsellor to help him get through it, someone to be on “his side”, someone he can vent his anger with so that he doesn’t turn it inwards and get depressed.

It hurts my heart when people can't be trusted.

He seems hopeful, asking if I think it could really help him. I tell him it’s the only way I got through my last marriage, and tell him the various ways to find a counsellor – through his doctor, free services through councils, a psychiatrist referral so that it can be billed through Medicare, and so on.

He gets called up to the counter (before me! I might add, when he arrived after I did), and I’m still sitting there when he goes to leave. He comes back and wants to know about my counsellor. I say she’s good and ask if he’d like her card (I always carry extras). He seems so grateful that I give him one, and in a moment of human compassion I say, “Let me give you my email address, and if you go to her, let me know how you got on.” He takes the card, and then just before he leaves, he says, “Write your phone number as well.”

BINGO! Alarm bells go off, but I’m surrounded by China, and don’t want to get into a “thing”, so I write my number, saying, “I’m really hard to get on the phone; email is better,” which is true, but in this case it’s for a different reason. Usually, it’s because the phone exhausts me – I like to see people when I talk to them. With him, it’s because I certainly don’t want to chat anymore. I’ve learned all I want to know until he can tell me whether or not he’s let go of his self pity and wallowing, and then I could give him some encouragement, VIA EMAIL.

I’ll bet you see where this is going. In the next two hours, I get three phone messages from him, asking IF HE CAN COME OVER TO MY PLACE! When I don’t answer him, he sends an email headed, “Lonley” (sic) asking again if he can come over. I ignore him, getting madder and madder. I don’t want to be mean to him, just in case he really has no idea of how inappropriate he’s being, but I’m mad that it looks like he’s trying to take advantage of my kindness. Finally, I send him an email telling him that I’m not available for coffee; just let me know how he goes after counselling if he wants to. I don’t hear from him again.

I tell my daughter, and she laughs with delight and says, “Mum, he wanted a booty call!” Well, that just makes me madder. I tell her if that’s true, then I’m left feeling why in hell should I ever try to be nice to someone on a simply altruistic level? It’s not the first time it’s happened, not with my history of no boundaries, but it’s the first time in about 5 years, since I’ve learned to be hyper vigilant about who I’m nice to.

Everyone talks about how we should put a hand out to help people, and strangers are only friends we haven’t met yet, and we should love like our heart’s never been broken, and dance like no one’s watching, blah, blah, blah.

Actually, I’m beginning to think we should relate like we’ve been shafted a million times!

The only good thing to come out of the story is that with my Fibromyalgia, I usually look pretty shitful at home, but when I get dressed properly, do my hair, and put on make-up, no one can ever guess how I really feel. That’s both a good thing and a bad thing, because then it also makes people believe we Fibromites aren’t really sick!

Evidently, Joe was fooled enough by my facade to want my booty. I should be flattered. But I’m not. I’m mad.

There was a famous American ballplayer in the first part of the 20th century called “Shoeless Joe” Jackson, that got involved in a World Series fixing scandal. A famous quote arose out of it when a kid who idolized him said, “Say it ain’t so, Joe.”

That’s how I feel. Betrayed by Joe. Mostly because I end up wondering if I should have been helpful from the beginning.

I’m not going to let it affect my openness with people. But I sure as hell will be a bit more careful with them.

I’m just disappointed …

4 Responses to “Day 100 Booty Call”

  1. I always give men my secondary email address and if they insist on a phone number I give them one from 1970!! It’s not that I haven’t revealed my number, just one that is defunct!! Much safer and less disappointing that way.

    • Yeah, I would have if I hadn’t been taken so unawares, and surrounded by so many people that I just couldn’t think straight in the moment. It’s how a deer must feel in the headlights! All is well, however, as I haven’t heard from him since I told him he couldn’t come over.

  2. Send him an email back and TELL him you’re not a “booty call” and that if that’s what he wants then he can look elsewhere. Either he will deny it or he will go away. Either way, you’ve stated the boundary and if he can’t take a hint, he REALLY needs therapy.

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