Dear Sir Classless Dude:
At first I was impressed when you held the door open for me as we exited the office building today. Chivalry is not dead, I thought to myself.
When you held the second door, I thanked you. What a nice, young, well-dressed boy, I thought. He’s got the tie going on, the nice polished shoes, cleanly shaven, a real young professional, an up-and-comer, if you will.
And then you spit.
Let’s reflect. Your pace was slightly quicker than mine, which was a good thing because when you were about 10 feet in front of me, I watched you look back and spit.
Did you happen to notice that you were walking into the wind when you did so? I thought perhaps you might, and I slowed my pace. He’s probably embarrassed, I thought, since he just spit into the wind and the spray is heading my way.
But apparently I over-estimated you, because you spit a second time. Right in my direction. Again.
Please help me understanding the act of spitting. Is your mouth so full of saliva that you just need to release the overflow…not once, but twice? Do you salivate more than the rest of us? Are you seeing a doctor for this condition? What do you do when you’re indoors, or do you spit there as well?
Or is this learned behavior? At some point in your life, did you decide that expelling saliva is an act of coolness? That it reinforces your manliness, increases your virility, takes you back to the Neanderthal world that you apparently were raised in?
Or are you marking your territory much like a male dog leaving his scent?
I saw no signs of illness, no cough, no congestion, not even a runny nose. I saw no outline of a Skoal can in the back pocket of your dress slacks.
So I’m a bit confused. These are questions to which I’ll never have answers, I know. But let me just say this as I step up to my soapbox if you could please refrain from spitting on it:
In many states, the act of spitting is illegal. A minor crime, mind you, but illegal nonetheless. At the very least, it’s disgusting, and no one appreciates the bacteria you’re so eager to spread around, particularly within a 10-foot vicinity of myself.
Maybe it’s ironic that it doesn’t bother me in the least when a baseball player cops a spit on the turf. I, myself, may have even laughed when a girl on my daughter’s soccer team spit, because, “hey, we’re tough, we have a girl on our team who spits, so you should be afraid of us”. And I admit to laughing at the train wreck of “bad girls” on TV who get in brawls after one of them hocks a loogie at the other.
But in a somewhat civilized society, I’d still call it a faux pas to spit in the path of a woman trailing behind you, or anyone else for that matter.
Especially when the wind is blowing downstream. Oh, did I mention that already?
So next time, don’t bother holding that door for me, Mr. Cool Dude, because I’d prefer to be left far, far behind you. I don’t want to see your spit. I don’t want to walk in your spit. And I certainly don’t want to wear your spit.
Karma, buddy, Karma.
Sincerely,
The Lady Behind You
And on a side note, let me note that it’s been a rough Monday. No holiday for me here. So if you’re a subscriber, please ignore the ridiculous post that email-blasted all over the world where I mixed up the New Post section with the Reply To Comments section. Yikes!
Accept that some days you’re the pigeon. And some days you’re the statue.
