Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

I like to think of myself as a suave individual; a master of the charming and witty repartee that keeps people interested in my mystery. I’m not. My poker face is nonexistent. Sure, charm I can muster up when needed, but mystery… that isn’t quite so quick to my grasp. My face shows emotion more readily than a stage dramatist, and I don’t have to wear the extreme makeup to project it. It’s just there.

If I’ve picked up on some of my own tells you can bet there are a bunch more that I’ve yet to realize. It isn’t anything as dramatic as crying tears of blood like that Bond villain, but still. Every time I find myself drifting off topic in my cubicle, perhaps browsing a NYT article or slumming it with Buzzfeed, I inhale deeply at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Maybe it started out because I’m wearing headphones most of the time and actually do get a bit startled when I realize the footsteps are just outside my cubicle. Maybe I just don’t breath when I take quizzes on what type of sandwich I am. Sad bologna if you were wondering. Yes, the quiz literally told me I was a sad bologna. Not only is bologna the most depressing of the lunch meat family, but I am the saddest of the sad. The picture had a bite taken out of the sandwich. I’m not even a whole sad bologna. Way to hit me when I’m down Buzzfeed.

It could be a touch of OCD though. Without fail, the breath gets sharply taken in. Just like the way I organize the cards I was dealt. Always in order. Always numerically organized through point value. Sure, depending on the game I’ll arrange them highest to lowest or vice versa, but if you play with me for a few hands you’ll be able to figure me out. There go my days of hustling people.

I touch my face, snort, blink erratically, or even smile. Open book. But I guess the real mystery of me is in what I’m an open book about. My mind wanders. You see me smiling down at my handful of cards and think I’m plotting something or I’ve got a great hand. I ‘m really thinking about a joke I heard in third grade. It happens more than you’d think. I touch my face but really I’m just checking to make sure I’m wearing my glasses. Sometimes I unconsciously push them back on my nose when I’m wearing contact lenses. It’s odd, but isn’t mystery odd?

My quirks are mysterious. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I could be a Bond villain, in fact I wouldn’t even say that I could dupe an above average toddler, but I might not be projecting what you think I am.