Karyn With a Whine

“You look like an environmental crusader!” the voice shouted from behind.

I turned ever-so-slowly, as to not disrupt the delicate work of my chiropractor as well as to not drop, in haste, the two-months of dry cleaning that lay bundled in my arms. There he stood: one of the eager beaver, Greenpeace volunteers that raid Davis Square like a pack of liberal rats. Forget Starbucks, forget The Burren, and don’t even try to make it to the Somerville Theatre - these Greenpeace follies will brigade across Elm Street to block your every move, arms and clipboards smugly linked as you attempt, but fail, to huff past to your desired destination.

Other superbly original lines chanted by Greenpeace volunteers include: “Hey, do you care about the planet and the fact that we’re all going to DIE?”, “I bet you wouldn’t be drinking out of that disposable cup if you knew it was going to give you ovarian cancer in 20 years,” and my personal favorite, “Hey, gorgeous - what’s an environmentalist like me gotta do to persuade a catch like you to sign my clipboard?”

(The answer to the last question, if you’re curious, is to get the hell out of my way. There’s a meatball sub and 16 ounce Sam Adams waiting for me at Mike’s.)

I gave a once-over to the Greenpeace gringo, who now looked legitimately scared that he had stopped me. Understandably so. My glare of steel met his quivering lower lip; my mind churned to elicit a comeback that would send him back to his patchouli-scented watering hole.

“Oh, I look like an ‘environmental crusader,’ do I?” I shifted the 50 pounds of plastic bags from one arm to the other, shook my iced soy latte in it’s disposable plastic container and scuffed my PVC sneaker to the sidewalk like an over-consumptive American cowgirl in a country western with a capitalistic theme. “Really? Little ol’ me, with my big ol’ plastic bags, full of chemically-treated, imported clothing, my coffee from corporate America and my sudden urge to start a smoking habit because I’m repeatedly harassed by you and every other do-gooder this side of the Charles River?”

My counterpart’s face fell suddenly and turned ashen. He knew I didn’t look like an environmental crusader: I looked like a woman on a PMS-induced bender. And now, he looked like an asshole. I live in Cambridge, home of the hippie and land of the ladies who don’t shave their underarms on purpose. Wasn’t that enough?

For me, it was enough. I stalked away after shooting a second dirty look for reinforcement, impressed with my ability to spit out a coherent sentence with decent anecdotal properties and syntax, as well as my ability to balance a shitload of dry cleaning while slurping on a slippery caffeinated beverage. Truth be told, I do care about the environment; and, okay, maybe I have donated to Greenpeace before. But no one puts Baby in a corner, especially when Danny Zuko’s got Grease Lightning revving around the corner at the dollar store.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my gas-guzzling chariot awaits.