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Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Girl, Be Not Proud

Today I did something that I'm not proud of (that is, besides ending this sentence in a preposition).

I was in the company bathroom and a woman right beside me had deodorant lines completely marking the sides of her perfectly pressed black skirt, like little wispy roads. No one had told her. I could tell. She went about washing her hands and drying them complacently without a care in the world as to the marring of her suit. This smart suit with black hose, black patent pumps and a crispy white shirt. A bob-do settled atop her middle-aged head with a smartness (again) that comes with many years of hassling with ponytails and long locks. She was just. so. smart.

Too smart.

Just looking at her face filled me with a rage that comes with seeing someone just too smug for their own good. A flood of thoughts raced through my mind in two seconds and deduced themselves into one action: I didn't tell her.

I didn't tell her.

I'm not proud. I should've taken the high road (cliche alert!) and whispered in her ear. I should've gone to her woman-to-woman and told her about her accidental faux pas. I should've "helped a sister out," but I didn't, and I'm sorry for it now.

Why do we, as human beings, look at a person and think that we know everything of their existence within one second? Why are we so mean? Strike that...why was I so mean?

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