I have a stalker. Sort of.
But before I get to that, let me tell you what happened the other day. I had just pulled out of the driveway and had rounded a corner. As I sat at a stop sign, waiting for a break in traffic, a car pulled up next to me (completely blocking the intersection) and the driver started talking to me through our open windows. He said my old car reminded him of his first car – same make and model. He went on to tell me that he’d seen me driving around about a year ago, and had tried following me, but I’d lost him along the way. He then said that as he’d just seen me exit my driveway, he now knows where I live. I smiled through all of his sharing and was nice and gracious as could be. Then someone pulled up behind us, giving me a reason to get the hell out of there. So he knows where I live, eh? Ugh. And he’s not even my stalker!
The dude who creeps me out works at the grocery store where I do my shopping. He’s a produce guy, and for a few years now he’s followed me around the store and tried talking to me. Never mind that I put out zero-point-zero waves of being interested in talking to anyone at the store. Never mind my wedding ring. Never mind the fact that I dress like trash while running errands. No – he just keeps trying to engage, and there’s something about his leer that gives me the willies. If you’re thinking that I could always go to a different store, well, you may have a point. But that’s my store, dammit! Can’t that guy take a hint and leave me alone? Let me also point out that this isn’t simply my imagination running amok. I never see that dude creeping out other shoppers. His creep factor is directed, y’all. At me!
And now there’s a potential second stalker, who knows where I live. L.A. is a freak show some times. And not always in a good way, either.