Yesterday’s commuting annoyance was an activity which, in itself, is not necessarily offensive when carried out in an appropriate location. It was a few young women in my apartment building, about college-age (do I get to call them girls yet? How old do I have to be?), and one of them had apparently gotten engaged recently and so one of the others was fulfilling her duty to ogle her ring and make admiring remarks. Which is fine. Although it can get a little irritating if you’re forced to listen to it, it’s universally expected and I don’t have a problem with that.
The location where I encountered them carrying out this little custom?
Getting out of the elevator. Not, in the elevator, or even, waiting for the elevator, either of which would have been completely innocuous – getting out of the elevator. The doors opened, myself and about six other tired people needed them to come out of there so we could get in and go home, and there they were, oohing and ahhing and – I don’t know quite how to describe this motion – slowly sashaying out of the elevator. Picture a girl sashaying, and then make it about half the speed that you just imagined. One of them was doing the bit where she takes the hand of the one with the best reason to sashay to stare at the ring closely, and literally she was performing this examination on the elevator threshold. And so this pretty tableau eased their way out as casually as if they were the Queen of England coming down a red-carpeted stair, except that I’ve found the English have the good grace to be terribly embarassed if they find themselves in someone else’s way for no good reason, so not even.
Goddammit, we’re all so proud of you, now MOVE.