Yesterday Mary* was telling me about this new guy she's seeing. Now, Mary hasn't dated anyone in months, so I figured that if she's gone out with this beau several times in one week, it must be special. Wonderful. Magical.
Cue that hair-raising music from the old Dracula movies and such, because yesterday she said something like "And I don't find him nearly as creepy as I did when I met him." Hmmm. I've always thought that first impressions meant something. Not everything, as hopefully there's more to people than what initially surfaces. Creepiness, though, normally sets off warning signals, like giant exclamation points circled in red, crazed alarm bells, and hot fireman clothed in only yellow fire-retardant pants and suspenders saying "Let's get you out of here, Miss." Sigh... Anyway, the American Heritage Dictionary defines creepy as:
1. Of or producing a sensation of uneasiness or fear, as of things crawling on one's skin: a creepy feeling; a creepy story.
2. Annoyingly unpleasant; repulsive: the creepy kids next door.
I had an experience with a creepy guy once; in fact, he general fit the categories of creepy #1 and #2. John* and I met in high school. I was young, naive... O.K. Honestly, I was clueless. But I still felt there was something "off" about him. He frequently twitched his shoulder and pulled at the crotch of his jeans in the car, at TGI Friday's, in front of my mom... And he thought that by calling me and using a deep, raspy, almost psycho voice on the phone, that he was wooing me. Mmm-huh. He also followed me everywhere; to class, lunch, home, etc. I had a wonderful Great Dane named LuLu (real name), so I didn't need some psuedo-puppy minus the shedding. Generally, though, he seemed nice. He took me out places, belonged to a similar circle of friends, didn't have multiple tattoos or a rap sheet (that I knew of). The pros, however, didn't even come close to outweighing the cons. I finally broke it off, which I think relieved my mother to some degree. At least her oldest daughter wouldn't run off with some stick-thin, crazed maniac who gave everyone the shivers and heebee jeebies while sounding like Barry White. Elated with happiness, I wanted to run through the streets yelling "I'm free! I'm free!"
Yeah. Everything was fine for awhile. There was no lunatic with his polo shirt tucked into his jeans hiding in the bushes, only my dad frequently interrogated who I was going out with and how many 7-Elevens we were going to rob, and the sole goosebumps I got were from the A/C in the AMC10 movie theater. That was, until my 16th birthday, when John broke into my housing development, found an unlocked door to the house, snuck past my mom, pushed past my sister, and just about barged in on me as I was all sudsing with H2O body wash and wrinkled as a raisin in the bathtub, just to give me a small token of his affection on my birthday. And the gift? A tin of Jelly Bellys. Btw, this gift totally ruined me, and I've never been able to eat these amazing flavor-filled treats since.
Now, there should be some moral to this story, like "Don't date creepy men." Or "Keep your bathroom door locked at all times." But I'm hoping Mary's guy turns out to be misunderstood and not creepy. Moral: Don't judge a book by its creepy cover. If you've read a chapter or two, and the book still has a crazed look in its eye, maybe re-think your decision and return the book to the library.
* Names changed to protect identity and potential embarrassment.
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