–It is a constant shock to me how many women cannot walk in heels, but persist vainly to the detriment of their overall appearance (and to my nerves).
–Ah yes, heavily distressed jeans, holey at the knee, too-tiny white tank and maximum squished up-not pushed up-cleavage, paired with a burnt orange tan and a “couldn’t care less” attitude–a classic.
–High schooler in high waisted dress with layered bubble-skirt, and ambiguous bump.
Me: Is she pregnant, or… I can’t tell.
Co-Worker: Pregnant? In heels?
Me: Well, she is a high schooler.
Me: It’s a tough call.
Co-Worker: You know, it really is.
–Man walks in with giant, multi-colored polka dotted mad hatter hat. Woman has Mardi Gras beads. There was a lot of exposed female flesh. Is there some sort of festival I don’t know about?
–I’d forgotten just how important the improbable fake tan is to the status of a high school girl. That and having the same bleached shade of blonde hair as all her friends.
–I don’t understand people who refuse to take a program. What do they have to rustle and look at when the speaker is so boring or awkward they can no longer handle watching?
–Woman walks up to me, distressed, cell phone open and held gingerly in front of her, afraid.
Her: How good are you at texting?
Me: I’d say I’m about mid-level.
Her: Well, can you help me? I’m bad at it. Could you type “I’m in the lobby”?
Me: Certainly. (I take phone, start typing, look down and sigh). aside to co-worker She doesn’t have T9 enabled!
Co-worker: Well, go to the menu.
Me: Too late. I’ve typed it in the long way. (I hand back to woman. She takes it gratefully, and takes another two minutes before successfully sending).
–Man: If I leave, how do I get back in?
Me: Uh, you walk through the door?
Man walks away and asks usher: Can I get back in if I leave?
Co-Worker: That was kind of a sarcastic answer.
I say: Yeah, it was.
I think: It’s all in what you ask.
–High school girls have some of the right ideas, a lot of the wrong ones, and completely horrible follow-through. Under-butt skin-tight skirts pared with bad tans and horrendous panty lines. Deep V cleavage covered with lingerie tank that rides up four inches in the under-arm. Fluffy flip flops with commencement gown. Hem-lines shorter than tops. TIGHTS (not even leggings, or jeggings) as pants. Crotch seams and all.
We saw bucketloads of eye-liner, gallons of too-dark foundation (perhaps the ideal shade for the tan?), and heels higher than some of those girls’ ankles.
I really hate to say it, but there was a man hopping on one leg with crutches who was more graceful than many of the graduates trying desperately to traverse the floor.
I was a fan of the messy braids, white cotton dresses, and girly floral patterns (NOT the giant, matronly ones).
I would like to award best-dressed to the nine year old taking tickets at the door. Adorable page-boy hair cut, age appropriate dress with a-line silhouette and whimsical purple texturing on skirt portion complete with white Mary Janes and butterfly barrette. She also knew how to work it.
a giggling at oh-how-times-have-changed-while-remaining-exactly-the-same