Snobservations

Inner soliloquy from my drive home:

Young lady, you've got the legs for that denim mini-skirt. Not even at my goal weight will I have anything other than short legs--I shall never approach those long, slender, strong ones you're walking around on. And the rope-covered wedgies are cute. The sort of avant-garde hairstyle must make you happy, or you wouldn't wear it. But if you have any illusions that the leopard-print halter doesn't scream "HOOKER" at the top of its little Dacron lungs, you will lose them when the first big ol' Buick pulls up next to you and the nice man behind the wheel flashes a twenty.

Not-so-young lady: No. Just NO. Not the bright burgundy hair, not the skin-tight sleeveless polyester purple paisley print blouse, not the unshaved pits in same, not the cigarette held in the multiply-beringed hand, not the flip-flops with little shells glued on them and especially not the sequined jeans stretching over a butt that looks like two cats fighting in a sack, NONE of that is one-tenth as appalling as the fact that you just SPIT on the sidewalk while you were walking with your kids. Gak.

Hey, mister. Wow. Oh wow. Yes, you are incredibly buff. I suspect you can do things with your pecs that would give my mother a heart attack, a stroke and a pulmonary embolism all at once. That doesn't mean that you should stroll into the employment agency wearing a pair of tennis shoes, a baggy pair of camouflage cargo pants and nothing else. Unless it's an escort agency. Look for women wearing leopard-print halter tops.

Thank you for joining us for today's Snobservations.