In a waiting area, a woman approached the front desk speaking in low tones, instinctively making me want to listen. While I've heard whispering is a more effective attention-drawing device than shouting (especially while parenting, though in the heat of the moment I rarely think to try), I still felt guilty. I considered creating my own white noise humming but didn't want attention drawn to myself, particularly indicating any neurological disorder.
Compensating for not listening, I actually looked at the woman's back, giving me something to think about besides violating an obviously private discussion; sort of a reluctant eavesdropper's interpretation of a blind person developing an extraordinarily acute sense of smell.
My lack of physical characteristic observation skills is legendary. Luckily, I've never been a material witness to a bank robbery. At least that I noticed. Thank goodness everything is recorded now. Someone has to tell me a neighbor is NBA material before I believe it, despite previously standing next to him, discussing the weather with his navel.
Sitting in the office, desperately not listening, I saw the word "pink" emblazoned below the woman's waistband skimming her derriere. Curiously, the word was written in gold, like one of those internet quizzes testing whether you can quickly identify the color word rather than the tint shading it.
Not being able to relate what the woman said, I discussed my newly discovered observational powers with a friend the next day.
"Those are Victoria's Secret pants. Haven't you seen them before? They're very popular."
"But what do they mean?" I persisted. "What statement do they make?"
"It's just fashion," she shrugged, perhaps summing up why I prefer conversation and eavesdropping to people-watching. Language is not equipped to adequately explain fashion.
Growing up, my dad regularly described people we saw, especially when safely inside a closed car: "Those pants make her butt look like two pigs fighting in a burlap sack" or "Is that a hand or a bunch of bananas?"
I shushed him, feeling self-conscious empathy.
"What?" he'd say. "They can't hear me."