Why Me, BoBs? Why Me?

During a recent walk to work, I noticed a Coca-Cola delivery van cruise unusually slowly by me as the driver, BoB, leered at me. Although I was creeped out by this, I didn’t really think anything of it because (1) I was wearing 5” heels, (2) I always get hollered at when I wear 5” heels, and (3) I realize that if I wear 5” heels, then I’m just asking to get hollered at or honked at while walking down the street.

So I kept tottering on my merry way to work and was relieved when I realized that the Coca-Cola van had pulled over. Thank goodness BoB had to stop to make a delivery!

No, “BoB” is not a typo for “Bob.” “BoB” means BOTTOM OF THE BARREL, and BoBs are the only kind of men who ever notice that I’m alive!!!

Now where was I? Oh yes, Coca-Cola BoB. I continued walking toward my office when I started to hear footsteps approach me. It was Coca-Cola BoB. Please let it be a coincidence that he’s walking in the same direction, I thought.

But then he caught up to me. And started talking to me. Of course.

To set the scene for you, allow me to describe BoB for you, with the rich, illustrative details you’ve come to expect from my dexterous writing (ahhh… stroking my ego is the one thing in life that never tires, bores, or fails me).

BoB was likely in his early 50s, and he was a corpulent man who had clearly let himself go at least 25 years prior, as evidenced by his alarmingly gargantuan barrel of a beer belly that one does not just awake with after a mere 10 years or so of heavy beer drinking – not even the “binge” type of which I, myself, am particularly fond. BoB also had completely gray hair – approximately 7-9 strands, that is, which were scattered chaotically about the crown of his wrinkled, age-spotted crown. Additionally, I would describe BoB as appearing squatty, as though someone had sawed off approximately 1/3 of what should have been his legs. Basically, calling him a TROLL would be an UNDERSTATEMENT! HE was a creature that the TROLL COMMUNITY would turn into a hideous little doll and put on their own damn shelves as a fucking joke!

Now back to the scintillating conversation in which BoB thought it would be wise to engage me.

“Hey! I like your shoes! It must be hard to walk in those!”

“Umm.. yeah, I guess.”

“So where do you work?”

“Around here.”

“So what do you do?”

“Tech stuff.”

“Must be tough now, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Blah blah blah. There was more that I’m not going to bother trying to recall.

By now you’re wondering WHY THE FUCK I ACTUALLY SPOKE TO THIS STALKER, so please let me remind you of something – I WAS WEARING FUCKING 5” HEELS!

Therefore, it was PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE for me to walk quickly or run to get away from Coca-Cola BoB. I might as well have been chained to the earth as I was completely handicapped and forced to converse with BoB until I could finally duck into a goddamn building 1 ENTIRE block later. Yes, I actually glimpsed a few moments of the life in Hell that awaits me.

For the first time in my life, I cursed my exquisite Fendi platforms. It felt so wrong to loathe something so beautiful and perfectly handcrafted (in Italy), but I couldn’t help myself! What was once a harmless sexy shoe transformed into a constraining weapon of agony and torture. THEY were the reason why I was forced to talk to a LECHEROUS CREEPY MONSTER! Oh the agony.

My life is SO HARD. Ugh! (This is where you, readers, feel sorry for me).


LESSONS LEARNED:
- Change into your patent leather, 5” platform stripper shoes AFTER you arrive at work, where it’s perfectly safe and appropriate to be wearing such shoes.