Tuesday, July 27, 2010

A Short Letter

Dear Lady Who Made My Day,

Could you BE any more pretentious? Standing at the bus stop like you own the world, dressed in an outfit straight off the cover of Vogue (the kind that no one actually wears), sporting designer shades and a blond blow-out that probably cost your stylist his sanity this morning. You are laden down with bags from every glamorous store on the Magnificent Mile, and looking angry about it. You pulled your cell phone from your weird, ugly purse and spoke into it with a fake accent and the hallmark phrases of one schooled in snobbery. You discussed the ridiculous impertinence of the salespeople at Neimen Marcus and the trials of having to wait for the awful bus- "this city just doesn't know a thing about style." Snapping it shut you shielded your eyes from the sun (because designer sunglasses apparently don't work that well) and looked up the street impatiently, as if you have some kind of GPS tracking device and the bus pulls up to wherever you are. You pulled a fan (YES, an actual fan) from your bag and delicately wafted the breeze over your face, until it clearly disturbed your bangs enough to be unacceptable. With a huge sigh of exasperation, you rolled your eyes at me, as if we share this moment in terrible agony together.

Friend, we have been waiting for the bus for approximately two minutes. So I smile back at you, thinking of the times I have waited at the 47th Street Station for, um, longer than two minutes. Like, forty-three minutes longer than two minutes. You seem to think that we are friends as you shift closer to me at the stop, and you say "I just hate taking the bus. It is so dirty!" I try not to grimace at many things: your pitiful attempt at conversation, the fact that this route is just about the nicest and cleanest of ALL the bus routes, and the whine in your voice that I don't tolerate from a 6 year old. And then I begin to laugh because many things happen all at once.

Pigeons swoop down from the sky, dive bomb your fantastic Valley Girl hairstyle, and you scream and duck. A very eclectically dressed homeless man (or woman) approaches, smelling just fantastic- you recoil in horror. And a little grubby child runs straight at your white linen pants with what appears to be jelly on his hands.

Karma bites back.


*My favorite part of this whole story is that I followed this girl when the bus finally pulled up. She got off two blocks away when a very normal working man attempted to sit down next to her and her purple jelly pants. And no, she didn't really appreciate the wave I gave her as the bus sailed by.*

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