The rest of us all must
look like trash to her, all comfortable gym shorts and summer sandals for the
long ride.
She walks into the rest
stop somewhere between Pittsburgh and Harrisburg, dressed in a yellow and
orange print dress and matching hat, the kind you might see on women from TV
footage somewhere in Africa. She is a column of sunlight in the fluorescent-lit
building housing a Starbucks, Burger King and Auntie Ann’s. Heeled shoes show
she didn’t come here to mess around.
How many of us, in
ensembles made entirely by Under Armour, look up as this woman enters and look
down at our venti lattes, breaded chicken sandwiches and cinnamon sugar
pretzels in shame? She trails regally through the building, deigning to stop
for rest among the commoners.
I wonder, does she think
something along the lines of, “Putting on pants and shoes is not a high bar to
clear but so many people seem unable to do so”? Does she feel self-conscious at
being so close to the hoi polloi?
No. One high heel in front
of the other. Head high. Show them.
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