THE REASON I'M NOT
3/11/03. 1:24am CST. Home.

It hit me in college, walking across campus in full sensory-deprivation mode, with the mirrored, blindered sunglasses and the walkman. Even my friends were sometimes reluctant to approach me.

It hit me at the mall in Steubenville, not long after the first time I shaved my head. I could walk in a direct path, and the crowd would -- consciously or not -- part as I came closer.

It hit me on the basketball court that spring, when I discovered that a shaven head, a goatee, and a simple glare from my a-little-too-big eyes equaled A Defense You Can't Shoot Through. No one who shot across me that night made a single basket. (We lost anyway.)

It hit me one afternoon in Fayetteville, outside Clunk Music Hall. I was early, thought I'd sit in the truck and read, but when the band came out and wandered around, and looked over that way a few more times than you'd expect, I realized I should kill the time elsewhere.

It hit me a few hours later in a park. I was sitting at a picnic table, reading, enjoying the weather, like a lot of the locals. But I wasn't returning the same looks I was receiving.

It hit me in New York City one night, outside the Fox News building, waiting for my friend who works there to come out and meet me. I was standing outside, 9pm on a Friday, suitcases in hand, in my gray sweatshirt and wool OJ hat. After five minutes or so, one security guard came out and milled about for a while. And kept close watch on me until my friend came up.

It hit me at LaGuardia airport on the flight back from that trip. Actually, I got singled out to be searched before every flight on that trip, but at LaGuardia I even had to take off the wool hat. I don't know what they thought I was hiding under that, besides the really nasty bed-hair.

It hits me nearly every time I go to a bar, to a concert, to a movie, to a restaurant, alone. It hits me in public places a lot, actually, and I can't decide whether I'm getting used to it or just sick of it.

I see the way you look at me. And I know exactly what you're thinking.

I know I look like one, and I'm sorry, but trust me: I Am Not A Serial Killer. I have never intentionally killed so much as a rodent, unless you count the family of mice we trapped in my office a couple years ago. I am actually a pretty gentle man, as far as I know.

I've probably brought this upon myself. For a long time I didn't even know I was doing it, but now it's pretty clear, and there's nothing I can do about it.

White male, thirtyish, dark hair, glasses, average build, average height:
All true, but it's not like I can really help that stuff.

Doing things alone, including travel over long distances:
So I like to do stuff alone, sue me. It doesn't make me a Distant Loner, an AntiSocial Drifter, a Misanthropic Recluse. It makes me a Guy Who Likes Doing Stuff Alone.

Beard, dark jeans, gray sweatshirt, dark blue wool hat, nondescript clothes, no visible logos:
OK, personal choices, but I'm not getting a makeover just to look less... normal, fercryinoutloud.

I guess I could try to be more aware of my appearance, my surroundings -- try to fit in, try to look less suspicious.

Or maybe I'll just have to get used to it. Apparently, single men over 30 are not to be trusted.