Should ‘eyes up here’ be enforced?

“Did you know that your rear passenger tire is a little underinflated?”

I harbor a grudging appreciation for a potentially life-saving hint like that.

I mean, it makes me feel like an idiot that I can stare at the tire, repeatedly kick it and still need a gauge to verify what someone standing 150 yards away in a hailstorm recognized immediately. But I do swallow my pride and express gratitude.

Not so much with “Hey, you got your ears lowered” and other impertinent observations.

I suffered more than my share of insecurities and embarrassments during school, so I currently lead a life of quiet desperation. I just want to stay under the radar and survive another day without umpteen people “helpfully” pointing out my every physical blemish or fashion faux pas.

“I couldn’t help but notice” is the icebreaker for many a would-be benefactor. Yes, if you’re utilizing a ladder, spotlight, binoculars and bloodhound to scrutinize someone, you probably can’t help but notice.

Sure, if a 12-pack of Charmin is following me from the public restroom, stage an intervention. But I consider it a microaggression to be notified about every almost-untied shoestring, elbow smudge or crammed-in-a-boot pants leg that disrupts someone’s OCD worldview.

It’s particularly galling when do-gooders possess a blind spot for precancerous growths and tell-tale heart attack indicators but catalog (and gossip about) every dangling booger they’ve ever witnessed.

A simple “good morning” is sufficient. I don’t require “The current temperature is 72 degrees and with the Slob Index, that will feel like…”

Listen to my joke, news flash or cry for help. Appreciate my smile. Interpret my hand gestures. But focus. Don’t try multitasking by simultaneously scanning everything about my hair, clothing, body and aura, in the equivalent of an 18-point-inspection oil change.

I’m especially creeped out by observations about the real or imagined status of my pants zipper. Seriously, if you “couldn’t help but notice” my fly-adjacent body zone, keep the ladder, spotlight, binoculars, bloodhound and candy – I’m still not getting in your van.

Granted, people sporting windchime earrings or headto-toe tattoos are probably fishing for comments; but most of us who are finally experiencing a good day aren’t in the market for some clown to sympathize, “Hey, you look tired, buddy. And your parade looks soggy, too.”

If you want to think positively, convince yourself that your friends, family and acquaintances are just gilding the lily and stroking your ego when they deliver an unsolicited pointer. More realistically, they probably think, “He’s a Dumpster fire, but at least I can toast a few marshmallows.”

My anxieties constitute a double whammy. On the one hand, I worry that my slightly askew shirt collar will sully the family name for eternity. (Didn’t Dante Alighieri scribble something about “Abandon all hope, ye who miss buttoning a button”?)

On the other hand, I ponder whether “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” is the guiding force of the universe. Is there some social compact that requires each of us to play “color-code the armpit hairs” with everyone we encounter?

No. I refuse to believe that.

Someday we’ll outgrow the darting eyes and the snap judgments. Someday “mind your own bee’s wax” will be our guiding principle.

“I couldn’t help but notice, your bee’s wax is dusted with the sort of pollen that went out of style last year…” *Sigh*

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at tyreetyrades@aol.com and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”