Or so my futuristic self thinks.
Yesterday, as I was humbly trying to get through the gates at the Roosevelt station, I felt someone talking to me from behind. I turned and looked at him and realized three things:
1. He said, "Beautiful hair," to me.
2. He was wearing a lime green vest that I assume makes him a CTA worker.
3. He was not at all creepy.
Most men, when they say, "beautiful hair," are either homeless and trying to get me to buy "Streetwise" for a dollar (they should really up their going rate if they are going to give such great compliments) or creepy ginger philes trying to get in my pants. Or, alternatively, Simon who, for whatever reason, pretended he was my boyfriend in 7th grade (ok, so pretty much up through 11th or 12th grade, even when he was actually dating a friend of mine.).
Anyway, I was so absolutely, positively shocked this perfectly mediocre man could give me such a nice compliment without wanting something or more importantly, without being creepy. Instead, he seemed rather grandfatherly.
Of course, I started scheming that he just happened to be one of those people who was really good at hiding their true intentions (see ex Chicago ginger phile No. 1) or he was a man of God and felt God would have wanted him to say/do nice things to people.
Either way, I can't seem to see the good in anyone who comments on my lack of melanoma. Being picked on when I was little, and being picked over as an adult has really made me jaded.
But maybe, just maybe, he read my last blog post, and realized, we have more in common than living in the city -- that is, that we're both at least a little bit, black.