Sore thumb

I love the phrase 'sticking out like a sore thumb'.  And I love, love, love Josh Wheadon's attention to the sore thumb question:

<scene>
XANDER:In no way do we stick out like sore thumbs.
WILLOW:Okay, but do they really stick out?
XANDER:What?
WILLOW:Sore thumbs. Do they stick out? I mean, have you ever seen a thumb and gone, 'Wow! That baby is sore!'
XANDER:You have too many thoughts.
<end>

This is often how my own thought processes unravel and when I occasionally share my thoughts I'm pretty sure most people around me come to the same conclusion that Xander had of Willow.  I know a 'Xander' - I love him dearly.

So about this thumb.   It occurred to me as I slogged to work this morning in baggy black trousers, trainers and a grey hoody that I don't really fit into the high powered, rush hour slew of individuals at Liverpool Street Station.  I'm not saying that I felt uncomfortable, because I didn't - possibly a little wistful at the perfectly manicured nails, salon perfect hair, size slim-bitch outfits and cutting edge fashions (and that's just the blokes!)  It did make me wonder what they perfect sheep thought about me.

A fairly non-descript plodder.  I'm guessing that unless I got slowly into somebody's rush-hour desperation way I went unnoticed.  I know how to blend, I'm good with wallflowers.  Randomly my cup of tea tastes like roast lamb but that is definitely a comment for another blog.  I think this lack of attention is a massive problem with our society. 

I'm not saying that I want everyone on my journey to work to stare at me in an uncomfortable, did I forget to get dressed, kind of way but.... no-one says good morning anymore.  No-one smiles or shares their paper.  We don't recognise anyone on our commute because the volume of people is so huge and each one is a walled up fortress of don't touch me, don't speak to me, don't make eye contact.  It's quite sad really.

The human bean is meant to be the fabulously social animal yet most of our youth are locked away in their individual bedrooms living a virtual life with the telephone numbers of suicide hotlines saved in their favourites.  Everyone has problems, no-one can cope, everyone is bleeding on the inside and only those who can act their asses off make it through the day without a crack, a crumble or a tear.  We are all sticking out like thumbs and I think, if we took a moment and really looked, those babies would be sore.