Getting there used to be half the fun. I loved to fly. Sometimes I pretended to be a dancer or a ballerina or a surgeon. We flew JetBlue and Midway Airlines and now, Southwest, smaller companies whose employees seemed to enjoy their jobs. It was pleasant, even when the plane was full and I was scrunched in the middle seat.
It's not so much fun any more. I walk around airports with my cane, trying to look pitiful so that no one will bump into me and knock me to the ground. People are so focused on their destinations that they pay no attention to their immediate surroundings. The possibilities for disaster are infinite.
But, I'm slow and patient, and by taking my time I'm able to arrive at the gate, well fed, blue pre-boarding envelope in hand. I sit close to the jet-way entrance, read, people watch....
... and see this on the t-shirt adorning the 60-something-year-old-man in the wheelchair across the aisle from me.
It was just that kind of a day, denizens.
It was just that kind of a day.
The girl working the check-in lane for the rental car (Budget, if you're interested) took her own sweet time getting to us and Jasmine, if you're reading this, manners are not optional in a customer service business. Polite is pretty much what distinguishes your presence from that of Robby the Robot. And yes, I called you a girl, because women don't treat other women that way.
It was that kind of a day.
The plane was full and the air was foul and we each had our own personal headache from hell to nurse as we flew over the clouds. It was bumpy and I was hurting and I couldn't get comfortable no matter how hard I tried. And then, there were the clothes.
(I warned you; I'm tired and grumpy.)
Mr. S&W above notwithstanding, the most startling appearances were those of the teenage girls. Years ago, as Little Cuter created her own, similar style, I came to a comfortable place with college girls in pajamas in public and even created my own personal absolutely-no-tightness-anyplace outfits which covered enough to be presentable. Somehow, the last part of that equation was missing today.
I do not need, nor do I want, to have your belly button pass my nose. Nor do I want to see four inches of skin above and below it. As Little Cuter says about spandex, exposing that much flesh is a privilege, not a right. And with privileges come responsibilities, and one of those responsibilities is being appropriate.
I'm not gasping at Marian the Librarian baring her ankles; I'm seeing way more than any stranger needs to see. I had no idea shorts could be that short, that form fitting, that revealing, and be worn without shame. It was without mystery. It was sad.
I felt old, out of date, judgmental, crotchety, prudish. And then I read my 30-ish friend,Jake's Mom's post on Facebook this afternoon. Driving her sophomore son home from school, she was appalled .
Parents expect our boys to "respect their girls", yet send their girls to school looking like Miracle Mile trash. It's amazing how many HS girls just walked by with their asses hanging half way out of their shorts and skirts.I guess I'm not the only one who's cranky today,
I think I ought to go to sleep and wake up in a better mood. The commercials are for chemically created hamburgers sizzling in grease on a non-stick saute pan. Alex Rodriguez is losing 35 or 75 or some huge number of millions of dollars and who cares? There are no role models in the world any more and I have mosquito bites on my feet and I miss my grand-dog and my children and I think I'll take my own advice and go to sleep.
In the morning, I'm bringing First Week of School Love Fest treats to the faculty and staff at the elementary school which adopted me and has helped me to heal. It will be impossible to be tired and grumpy then.