Why don't you tell me what you really think?

As I was walking home last night, a woman, who seemed quite inebriated (and a little messy as a result) decided to give me some unsolicited advice. Striding towards me, in her dirty white punk outfit, she focused her mascara-smudged eyes on mine, and spat: "Why don't you DO something with your life?" It was almost 11pm and I had just popped up from the subway, less than half a block from my apartment. Something about riding the subway at night always leaves me a little jittery, but I reason that the nervousness keeps me safe and on guard. So, in my heightened state of awareness, I was more than a touch shaken by her tone. But she was right. It was good advice. Never mind the fact that I was already doing something with my life, something quite bold and exciting (and that technically, even people who live in cardboard boxes are "doing" something with their lives: asking for change, peeing in empty water bottles). Nonetheless, I had to agree. She had a good point, and her overture illustrates one of the attributes I love about New Yorkers: they tell you what they think of you. Strangers on street corners have become my heroes, after complimenting my outfits. On two separate occasions, I have left my apartment, which has no full-length mirrors, wearing experimental ensembles, which I was unsure about. As though they could sense my insecurity, these kind souls would look me over and send my confidence soaring with a "great outfit!" or an "I love what you're wearing". And I'm not talking about the sleazy, muttered comments that often come from males. These are females who simply dig your look and tell you so. "Great boots"; "I like your hair" … It's an unusual experience for an Australian, but it's nice. However, riding the seesaw of honest remarks doesn't always pitch you skywards. Last weekend marked the third time a manicurist had asked me if I was pregnant. Three different nail artists, three different salons. The first couple times I was embarrassed and mortified, but this time I chided: "You shouldn't ask people that! And no, I'm not!" I mean, I am no Nicole Ritchie, but I eat right, I go to the gym religiously and I am within the normal weight range for my age. I might have a little bit of a tummy, but it is nowhere near the size required for another human being to make a home inside! Each time, my loyal girlfriends have come up with helpful and plausible explanations. "She misunderstood your conversation, she thought you were pointing to your belly" "She was pregnant herself and she recognized your brand of stretchy pants" (Great. So the funky pants I love and purchased in Australia, are now pregnancy pants!?) But my favourite, came as a result of this last transgression. "It's probably because you are glowing. You're the only person who can glow like that in the heat of the city!" "Well, they should try bronzer," came my pouting reply. I was offended. I wondered whether this was nothing more than a inter-cultural misunderstanding. After all, each of the offending women was of Asian background. Perhaps in some Asian cultures, a query of pregnancy was a high compliment, suggesting you are ripe, healthy and bountiful. Or perhaps these women were knowingly rude. But what can I do? As with good friends and family, we have to accept the good with the bad, and on balance, I love New Yorkers for their honesty. Now why don't you shut off your computer, and GO FOR A WALK?!