Robyn Action Figure Syndrome

I am totally psychic. Do you know why? If so, clearly you are psychic as well.

Just this very Monday, I was telling Jill about this weird thing that happens after I break things off with a dude. Not to sound like a crazy egomaniac, but I swear to GOD, half of them end up dating what can only be referred to as Robyn Action Figures. They're like, tiny versions of me that don't talk. I don't get it. It's as though they thought to themselves- "Robyn is really swell, if only she were pocket sized and less fun at parties." I don't take it as a compliment.

Sure, you may be thinking- maybe the dude just has a type, lookswise, and you happened to fall into that category. Maybe he just happens to have a fetish for girls with dark, bobbed hair, pale skin and pointy faces. Stay with me here. One time, the girl was also a classically trained singer. From Rhode Island. How many of those have you run into lately? In Chicago. Oy.

So today, I'm schlepping around Dominick's- as I am wont to do on my day off. And as I am contemplating yogurt, I see this girl wearing the same shirt as I am- but as a dress since she is approximately the size of a smurf. Her hair is about the same, and she's even wearing red lipstick, and patent leather Mary Janes to boot. We would have made an amazingly creepy family portrait. And who should turn the corner to join her, but a former gentleman caller of mine.

Pregnant pause made of awkward.

"Hi!" I say, because, whatever, it's not like there was any bad blood or anything, he just bored me and I was more into someone else at the time. I save my petty for when I need it.

He says hello, we do the introductions dance, yadda yadda yadda. He tells her I'm a friend, which is appropriate. Her handshake is made of spam. It is a spamshake. "It's so nice to meet you! I like your dress!" I tell her- she looks at her feet and says thanks- all the while anchoring herself on the dude's arm. "No, see" I tell her, pointing at my shirt "We're wearing the same thing. We match." She looks at my shirt and fakes a twitter of a laugh. "Oh." she says- "I didn't notice."

I talk a lot when I feel awkward or nervous. Well, actually, I talk a lot anyway, but moreso and more loudly when I'm feeling awkward or nervous. "Have you tried this fancy yogurt yet? It looks neat. Usually I just get the Stoneybrook farms strawberry kind, but Vanilla Chai seems interesting. Do you even know what an acai berry is supposed to taste like? Isn't that an Oprah thing? I haven't tried anything involving them yet because I skeeve bandwagons. I've still never even tried grape kool-aid."

"Huh." She says. Dude interrupts- "Robyn hosts this reading thing, you know, in Logan Square" he says to her, and then turns to me and says "Emily* is a writer too- you should ask her to read something sometime." I explain that we're booked like, months in advance these days, but that I'll remember her the next time I have an opening. I say goodbye, far too warmly for the reception, explaining that I have to go get some different granola now to go with my new fancy yogurt flavor.

I don't know, I could just be being Judge Judy about this. It's totally possible that she has a personality but prefers to keep it hidden or something. It could just be that she was just as weirded out by the bizarre similarity as I was, and handles her nervousness differently. She didn't seem nervous, just less than vivacious. Still, it was totally Twilight Zone-ish.

*Not her real name, duh.