I try very diligently not to be judgmental - and for someone with such a jaundiced eye, trust me when I tell you that's a challenging task at the best of times. I really make an attempt to avoid assumptions, give people the benefit of the doubt, and make liberal use of the 'different strokes' philosophy.
But sometimes, we come across someone so absolutely out there that we can't help but burst into a spasm of such primal judgmental condemnation that we'd make a room full of Inquisitors raise their eyebrows.
Yesterday that woman was a hyped-up blond trophy mom in the shoe store I occasionally hit on my lunch break. Ordinarily the atmosphere in there is hushed and serene, almost like a library, or dare I say, temple. The smell of good leather and the cutting-edge cleverly-engineered footwear marketed to your average relatively affluent and comfort-obsessed female Marinite enhances this atmosphere of reverence and tasteful consumerism.
But not homegirl. Oh no. She was bouncing off the walls, talking a mile a minute, ratcheting the vibe up with her frenetic fussing and squealing over the white four-and-a-half inch platforms that she wanted to buy for both herself........and her nine-year-old daughter.
These shoes were no joke. They were provocative enough on a grown-ass woman like myself, let alone a little girl who has never walked in heels. The mother's voice ascended an octave as she encouraged her daughter that of course she could learn to walk in high heels by the wedding on Saturday. When I heard that, all pretense at being nonjudgmental went right out the window and I camouflaged myself behind the Naya display to discreetly eavesdrop on them. Apparently they were to attend this wedding and Mom wanted them to match (like twinsies!). The girl even tried to pick less-intimidating shoes but Mom was having none of it. Eventually she let her daughter take the junior-hooker-in-training platforms off and asked the sales associate to put the two remaining white pairs, one in her daughter's size and one in her own, on hold, demurring with a coy, 'Well, I have to ask her Dad, who will be back tomorrow and is spending thousands of dollars on.......' and that's when I quit listening and began theorizing that perhaps she was filching her child's Adderal prescription, given her fidgeting, rate of speech, and manic energy. Or powdering her nose instead of eating. Or maybe that the peroxide had penetrated her frontal lobe and dissolved what little integrity and decision-making ability she might have once had. Then she left with her put-upon mini-me and her husband-controlled wallet, probably to go find matching white giant hoop earrings at Claire's for the two of them.
I joked politely with the saleswoman about the situation and both of us exchanged wordless looks as though we both knew the girl would be doomed to a lifetime of lousy relationships, passing out at frat parties and waking up five hours pregnant and with a tramp stamp on her back. Our glances said everything, except that which both of us really wanted to say: 'Can you believe she wanted to put her little kid in THOSE SHOES?'
By the way, I bought two pairs of them - one in brown and one in black.
But sometimes, we come across someone so absolutely out there that we can't help but burst into a spasm of such primal judgmental condemnation that we'd make a room full of Inquisitors raise their eyebrows.
Yesterday that woman was a hyped-up blond trophy mom in the shoe store I occasionally hit on my lunch break. Ordinarily the atmosphere in there is hushed and serene, almost like a library, or dare I say, temple. The smell of good leather and the cutting-edge cleverly-engineered footwear marketed to your average relatively affluent and comfort-obsessed female Marinite enhances this atmosphere of reverence and tasteful consumerism.
But not homegirl. Oh no. She was bouncing off the walls, talking a mile a minute, ratcheting the vibe up with her frenetic fussing and squealing over the white four-and-a-half inch platforms that she wanted to buy for both herself........and her nine-year-old daughter.
These shoes were no joke. They were provocative enough on a grown-ass woman like myself, let alone a little girl who has never walked in heels. The mother's voice ascended an octave as she encouraged her daughter that of course she could learn to walk in high heels by the wedding on Saturday. When I heard that, all pretense at being nonjudgmental went right out the window and I camouflaged myself behind the Naya display to discreetly eavesdrop on them. Apparently they were to attend this wedding and Mom wanted them to match (like twinsies!). The girl even tried to pick less-intimidating shoes but Mom was having none of it. Eventually she let her daughter take the junior-hooker-in-training platforms off and asked the sales associate to put the two remaining white pairs, one in her daughter's size and one in her own, on hold, demurring with a coy, 'Well, I have to ask her Dad, who will be back tomorrow and is spending thousands of dollars on.......' and that's when I quit listening and began theorizing that perhaps she was filching her child's Adderal prescription, given her fidgeting, rate of speech, and manic energy. Or powdering her nose instead of eating. Or maybe that the peroxide had penetrated her frontal lobe and dissolved what little integrity and decision-making ability she might have once had. Then she left with her put-upon mini-me and her husband-controlled wallet, probably to go find matching white giant hoop earrings at Claire's for the two of them.
I joked politely with the saleswoman about the situation and both of us exchanged wordless looks as though we both knew the girl would be doomed to a lifetime of lousy relationships, passing out at frat parties and waking up five hours pregnant and with a tramp stamp on her back. Our glances said everything, except that which both of us really wanted to say: 'Can you believe she wanted to put her little kid in THOSE SHOES?'
By the way, I bought two pairs of them - one in brown and one in black.
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