I Hate People Staring At Me

THE WOMAN WITH THE UNRELENTING STARE

Years ago, I worked as a personal secretary to a semi-famous older woman who lived in a large house. I had her study as my office, although sometimes I worked in the dining room.

A middle aged woman I'll call Margaret was a permanent houseguest there. Margaret roamed around the house all day long.

For significant amounts of time during the day, Margaret would come upon me as I worked and stand in the doorway or in the room itself and just [i]stare[/i] at me. As she stared, she wore a small secretive smile on her face.

It was totally unnerving.

I had been told to keep the study door open at all times so I did. And the dining room had an archway into the breakfast room which adjoined the kitchen which had another door that went to the rest of the house. At the other end of the dining room was a door into a hall that led to the bedrooms and bathroom. So it was not possible to shut out Margaret.

I tried everything. I could not just order her to get lost since she was my boss's houseguest. But I did say things, like asking her if there was a reason she was standing there staring at me.

She would answer me by smiling a little smile and calmly saying, "No, there is no reason," Her smile seemed to contradict her words.

I'd say, "You know, I feel uncomfortable when you stare at me and smile like that."

She'd just keep up the stare and the smile and say, "Umm hmm. I can see that."

Then I would ask, "Then why do you do it?" And she would pause, smile secretively, shrug a small polite shrug and answer, "No reason."

I tried hard to go on working and ignore Margaret and her stare. It was a strain. I told my boss about it. My boss said she'd ask Margaret about it. But then I heard nothing back. Maybe it was because my boss was in her mid 90s and not all there mentally speaking; that's why she had hired a personal secretary.

Margaret always looked at me as if she had an amusing secret about me. I would find myself checking my clothing to make sure everything was buttoned, zipped and proper. Sometimes I would ask her if something was wrong.

She'd answer, "No. Nothing's wrong." And go on staring.

I tried discussing it with her but never got anything but the above responses accompanied by more quiet staring and that small secretive smile.

Since she lived there, and I was essentially hired help from outside the household, there was nothing I could do but accept it as part of my working environment. Some days, I dreamed of tossing her over a cliff.

Eventually I quit the job. There were other reasons besides Margaret, and it was mainly my boss's mental chaos and inability to concentrate, but Margaret's unrelenting stare played a role in my decision.

Later, I found out that Margaret was a homeless woman whom my boss had befriended and taken in. One theory I had was that Margaret wanted my job and set out to make me uncomfortable. I also found out that, after I left the job, my boss hired another secretary and it was not Margaret, so if that was Margaret's plan, it didn't work.

That stare really got to me over the months I worked at that house. It shredded my personal confidence. I was always convinced she knew something personal and embarrassing about me or that my blouse was unbuttoned.

To this day, I still wonder if, somehow, Margaret was part of my mother's people (my mother was part of a powerful, secret political group that sometimes harrassed me). Why did she stare at me like that? What was her motive?

I'll probably never know.