I've got fat fingers. They're not nimble. My hands are small. My fingers are like Shrek's "dirty green sausages," but with brown skin. Most of my work day is spent typing. When I'm not typing, I'm thinking or pondering or yearning. And so on. I can't keep my hands to myself for some reason. They constantly fidget. It's not anxiety. Moving my fingers helps me feel like I'm doing something, kinda like writing. Maybe I do have anxiety. Doubt it. Is this something anxious people would do? Overthink about their small hands and chubby fingers while fidgeting in denial? I like to fool myself into thinking that I'm practicing to pickpocket people. I have a fat gold coin by my desk that I move between my fingers to keep them agile. I used to practice sleight of hand with playing cards, but the stakes weren't high enough. Pickpocketing is a binary practice. You can successfully extract something from someone's pocket without them knowing. Otherwise, an Italian lady catches you in the act and yells "attenzione pickpocket!" She'll then post your failed attempt on TikTok for the world to see you as a thief. Clubs in Toronto are my pickpocket playground of choice. That's when people's guards are the lowest. Anyone with bottle service is practically asking to get robbed. I'm a big reader. I'm stalling to read Brother's Karamazov by Dostoyevsky because Crime And Punishment was too intense. Did you know that you can enter Indigo and walk out with books? You don't need to pay. It's like a library. I tried to borrow two books today. I wore a brown old school Russian style leather jacket. I unzipped the top half and snuck The Secret History by Donna Tartt in the left side of my jacket. Doing this made me feel like a drug dealer more than a thief. "Why stop there?" I thought, so I snuck Getting to Yes by Roger Fisher and William Ury inside the right of my jacket. As I walked towards the exit, an employee walked towards me. She had this sly smile, making eye contact with me as she asked, "Find everything you're looking for?" I had a feeling she knew what I was up to. It felt like she knew something I didn't. All I responded with was "Yup." Sure, it's normal for staff to check on customers, but the vibes felt off. Is it because I felt guilt and shame for attempting to steal two books I can easily purchase? Maybe. Did she see my sloppy shoplifting from the security cameras and approach me signalling that she knows I'm a thief? Why wouldn't she just straight up yell attenzione pickpocket? Maybe she didn't have the energy to confront me. Or she was planning to ambush me with security as I exit the store--asking me to unzip my jacket--revealing me as an imposter. These were question that ran through my mind within seconds of her asking whether I found what I was looking for. I put the two books back on the shelf and walked away. Who knows? Maybe I am anxious.
