Looking For par'Mach In All The Wrong Places

Most of today was thoroughly uneventful, Disappearing-Man-wise. It was one of my regular deadline days at work, except of course technically I wasn't at work, I was here at home. Most of the time, when I work from home, I love it, because there's something of a teenage me-wear-a-tie?-Ffffffffuckyou! vibe about working in your jim-jams (or indeed in your Victoria's Secrets, come to that), but today, I was under pressure from the start, and the damn thing just didn't let up. I've gotten into the habit over the last few days of doing two or three separate cycling sessions a day while I'm at home, to make up for the lack of walking. Today, I simply didn't have time to get on the bike until after d had come home. Finally got done with the main body of my work by about 2ish, and had to go into town to a) get some lunch before the lion in my gut tore my damn fool head off, and b) to post a couple of packages.

That's where my day went a bit weird, really.
I had my packages under my arm, and the line in the Post Office was almost to the front door. I joined it, and waited for the auto-announcer to give me the counter to go to.
I registered the fact that a guy had joined the line behind me, but this is London, you don't think anything of it - it's the rules.

"You a Trekkie?" he asked, peering round my shoulder.
Now, I should say - it's possible there's more to this than some creepy Simpsons-Comic-Book-Guy version of gaydar. As it happened, the packages I was there to post were two seasons of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. I've watched all seven seasons of that show, and now I'm selling them off, because life is too short to watch Deep Space Nine twice. I had bought the envelopes in the Post Office, and put them in. It's entirely possible he spotted me doing this before I ever noticed him, because, as I say, it's almost against the rules of social protocol to notice people in London. At least, I'm clinging to the idea that he saw me doing this, because if he didn't, if he was, as I assumed at the time, a complete stranger off the street making stereotypical, if friendly, assumptions about me, I think I might just go and headbutt the wall till I knock it down.
"Erm..." I said. It's a tricky question. I'm not, really, a Trekkie. I mean, yes, I have all the Original Series. And, come to that, all the Next Generation. And, as I say, I'd picked up all of Deep Space Nine, and watched them all. And...ahem...all the movies. But in my defence, I only picked up the Original Series and the Next Gen because d said she'd watch them with me, cos she enjoyed them too. We've watched the Original Series Pilot, and both, at the time, fell asleep. None of the rest have had the seal broken on them. We are making our way through the movies, but we've already agreed that, once we've watched them all once, I can sell them too, and frankly by then, I'll want to. But I don't have memorabilia, I don't have books, I don't have figurines, and I don't, don't, don't do the costume thing.

Ahem...not for Star Trek anyway.
So I'd paused, trying to work out a) what he meant, b) why he was asking, and c) whether, by anyone else's standards, I really was a Trekkie.
"Erm..." I said again. "Not really. I mean, I watch it, but..."
"I've got everything," he said, rather overestimating his own potential. "I'm Jazz, by the way," he explained. "I'm 45." Extraneous information, I think you'll agree. Then Jazz offered me his hand. I smiled weakly and shook it.
"Cashier Number Two please..." said the auto-caller, and we shuffled forward.
"Yeah," said Jazz. "I have phasers, and tricorders, original and next gen...I have chess sets, two and three dimensional, y'know, the one with the extra levels and stuff...all perfect. Never took them out of the box. I work in security, and it's funny," he said, again overestimating himself. "Cos I have a Security uniform, you know, the gold one for security and engineering, like Chief O'Brien. And sometimes at work, I put it on, and everybody's cool. I've had photos and everything. Course, I've got a couple of other costumes too. Got some Klingon ridges..."
"Erm...niiiice," I nodded, no longer sure how to play this at all.
"Cashier Number Four please..."
"So..." said Jazz. "Where d'you go drinking? D'you go to Trek Bars, or what?"
"Trek...bars?" I asked, blinking.
"Yeah, y'know...dress-up bars."
"Riiiight," I said. "I...erm...I don't really go drinking. Sorry."
"Oh...I mean, I don't drink," he said. "I dress up and go and drink Diet Coke and watch my friends drink...D'you wanna..."
"Cashier Number Eight please..."
"Oh...erm...sorry, that's me," I said, scurrying away.

Typical. I lose a stone and suddenly I'm being chatted up by 45 year old wannabe Klingon warriors. In the line at the freakin' POST OFFICE.

Now, in itself, this was weird enough. But coming on the heels of last night, it was a double weird sundae with extra scoops of freakish and bizarro sprinkles. Y'see, last night, d was telling me some of the things she occasionally tells me when she wants to disquiet and disturb me. We met in an online writers' group, you see, and she maintains that she 'won', and that several of the group members, back in the day, were 'playing' for me. She says things like this every now and then to make me squirm, bless her. She was chuckling by the end of it, telling me "Oh baby, trust me, you were a catch...and I caught you."

You might think this is good for the ego. It isn't. I find it weird, and freakish, and not a little disquieting, because of course traditionally, people make plays for the aesthetically pleasing, so the idea that people were 'playing' for me simply does not compute. And it's probably a good thing that it doesn't - can you imagine the levels to which my egomania would soar if I thought I was attractive? (Shudders)....Doesn't bear thinking about.

So when I got home, I had to call her.
"I've been invited to a Trek Bar," I said.
"A Shrek Bar?" she said. "OK..."
"A Trek bar," I said, louder. "A dress-up joint in the city, where they set phasers to stun."
I told her the whole story. She had to go away to breathe for laughing so hard.

"See?" she gasped. "Told you you were a catch!"

T'riffic. I can pull 45-year-old wanna be Klingons, looking for par'Mach* at the Post Office.

What a day...

* par'Mach is the Klingon love ritual. Shuttup! Knowing that does NOT make me a Trekkie...oh, sod the lot of you, I'm going to bed!