I think many of the problems I face in my day-to-day life, stem from the fact I think I am much taller and more jacked than I really am. In fact, I am 5 feet tall. That's it. For a while I tried to pass off that I was 5'2 but no one bought it.
My mouth and my demeanour is that of a much more frightening person. More and more, I am realising this fact as it continually gets pointed out to me by my 8 foot tall partner.
So this happened to me the other day:
I was walking across a zebra crossing and for those of you not from England, this means cars legally HAVE to stop. In Canada, those things don't mean shit. In Canada, it basically means, this is a place where pedestrians can cross safely, if there are no cars around and you look both ways and you announce you are going to cross. Well then yes, it's safe.
Well here it's a little different. If I step into that black and white striped aisle, I am free and clear to cross as fast or slow as I want. Cars. Must. Stop.
So I was crossing up to the halfway point when a motorcycle decided he didn't want to come to a complete stop. If he stopped, that would mean he'd have to look even more like a loser, trying to hop up and balance his feet on either side of a aerodynamic, racing scooter that looked like it was from Fast and Furious 24. Great vehicle choice for Central London. Anyway, he wanted to minimally reduce speed while I sprinted across so he wouldn't have to actually wait.
I, being a 10 foot tall person on the inside, slowed down and glared through his tinted visor, directly into his soul. This triggered a showdown which led to hime speeding through the zebra crossing so close behind me that I could feel the wind pass on the back of my neck.
He thought he got away.
That was...until he got the red light 20 metres down the road.
I quickly finished crossing and sprinted - we're talking a full blown, purse over the shoulder, holding my skirt down, eyes closed, hands splayed like Usain Bolt sprint. I caught up to him, who was none the wiser that he was about to get served and shouted at him from the curb, "Hey you! You're a f*cking *sshole!" in the most guttural, threatening voice I could muster and stormed off.
Although I realise this probably wasn't the safest of decisions, it was the most satisfying of ones and I'm pretty sure he shit his leather pants, judging by how high he leapt off his suzuki banana seat.
I'm back baby.
