Blogatron

Confidential to some of the people I pass on the way to work:

Dear Lady Who Wears the Perfectly Round Circles of Blush:

What’s that all about? You’re at least forty, and not identifiably crazy outside of the weird doll makeup. (You could also stand to go a little easier on the perfume, but that could be said of a dishearteningly large number of people.) So anyway, I wonder about you. How did this trend start? Was it a gradual process, where you just started to get lazy with the blending and gradually got acclimated to the way it looks? Do you think it gives you a girlish charm? Do your coworkers make fun of you behind your back?

Curiously,
Hilatron

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Dear Blonde Girl,

Okay. I can respect that you’re rocking a whole sorority girl thing, with the L.L. Bean and the athleticism and the smiling and the faux-retro-preppie-slut clothing that’s so popular with the kids these days. I mean, it’s a look, I guess. Also, I’m sure that your cute button nose and perky physique ensure that you rarely spend a Saturday night bereft of the company of some strapping young man, adorned with Abercrombie t-shirt, smelling of hormones and CK1. To each her own, I’m sure you would want none of my homebody, artwanker, cult-movie worshiping lifestyle yourself, it is a world of infinite variety, and so on.

However, this thing you’ve got going on lately is just disturbing. I noticed back in January that your complexion had gone from standard-issue milkfed peaches and cream to an out-of-season tan, but I figured that maybe you’d just gotten back from some fabulous Christmas break vacation. No big thing.

Then there was the footwear. True, we were past the unbelievable cold spell that held early January in its terrible thrall, but still. Flip-flops are simply not something you want to see on anyone’s feet in winter in New England. It’s unsettling. My own toes curl in sympathetic distress every time I pass you, plus it’s just plain wrong to pair them with a puffy North Face jacket.

This morning, I realized that things have gone too far. If no one else is going to tell you, I will – girl, you’re orange. Put the self-tanner down and back away slowly. I don’t know if you think it makes you look healthier or thinner or what, but seriously, you are just scaring us. And still with the sandals! It was 25 degrees out this morning, not counting the wind chill factor!

I beg you to face facts and accept that it’s still winter, Blonde Girl. I realize that you’d probably rather be getting hosed down by a drunken emcee on sunny Miami Beach, but pneumonia and an increased risk of skin cancer never made anything better.

Concernedly,
Hilatron

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Dear Space Taker,

Every day it is the same. Am I the only person who stands up to you and your sidewalk-hogging ways? Don’t you get tired of pretending to be shocked when I don’t walk in the street or through the bushes so that you can remain plumb in the middle of our shared path? Well, do your worst. This here’s my half, even if I do have to keep body-checking you to prove it.

Resolvedly,
Hilatron

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Dear Preschool Class that Uses One of Those Kid-on-a-Rope Devices With the Little Handles for Each Child, Making Them Into a Bumbling, Slow-moving Little-kid Train:

I should probably be horrified at the enforced conformity or something, plus I don’t even like kids all that much, but awwwww.

Hypocritically,
Hilatron

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Dear Sort of Arty-Looking Guy Who Wears the Same Kind of Khakis Every Day, Along With a Resigned, Tolerant, “I’d Rather Be Winning the Lottery” Expression:

I’ll bet you were not really cut out to be an administrative support employee either, were you?

Understandingly,
Hilatron

Posted by hilatron at February 23, 2004 03:38 PM | TrackBack