Supersnob

I am such a snob. I mean, I'm really concerned about this. Earlier this morning at the doctor's, I had to wait outside the insurance lady's office to discuss what it's going to cost to have this child, particularly since my new insurance just kicked in, and I no longer have the fancy-dancy insurance that covers everything, provided by the unquestionably evil Verizon Wireless. I--well, my Dad, I am somewhat ashamed to admit--paid for the COBRA insurance for three months until the insurance at my new/old job started, and now I'm on my own. As I very well should be, seeing as I'm 27 and married and all. Geez, I suck.

Back to my snobbery. So oddly, there was a line at the insurance lady's door--well really, it was just one person standing there, but the situation didn't look good. The insurance lady, whose name is Paula, was on the phone with someone and it was clearly taking a long time to get whatever information she needed. My guess was that she was on the phone with Blue Cross/Blue Shield--I don't know how I know that, I just do. My problem, though, wasn't so much Paula being on the phone with another evil corporate giant; I can wait, really I can. I really put an effort into being a "good customer," because I know what bad customers are like, and pretty much I hate them. I mean, sometimes, you have to be a bad customer, there's just no way around it, like when Bank of America could not for the life of them get my new address right on my accounts for 3 months, despite multiple email, phone, and written correspondence attempts, and Scott had to call and be super-irate. Bastards.

But it was especially difficult this morning to be the good customer and not appear extremely annoyed for having to wait, and I blame the lady in front of me--just her mere physical presence. God. She was straight out of the 1980s, but in a way that I always get very skeptical of. Her hair was really long and straight, except for at the bottom, where it was wavy in the wrinkly way suggesting she had it in a braid the day before. No poodle bangs, but there was a mighty thick black elastic headband. Then the jacket--you know the windbreakerish kind that comes in a million clashing colors, some metallic? Yeah, those were ugly in the 80s, too. And there were black stretch pants, tucked into the socks, as well as white sneakers. And people, this lady was not going to work out. She smelled like she had rolled in about a thousand cigarettes. I couldn't tell if she was pregnant, but just the mere idea of her being pregnant pissed me off. Because of the cigarettes, because of the unsightly homage to the 80s, and because of the general smirky, chip-on-her-shoulder way she carried herself. She was totally the mean girl in school who would punch you on the playground. I hated this lady, and I didn't know a thing about her.

My skepticism with the straight out of the 80s thing is that I know clothes cost money, and I know fashion is not the most important thing. I myself am not any sort of icon, and I'm also very big on bargains. However, I also know that if you don't have a lot of money and have to shop exclusively at Goodwill, that you can find cool, vintage-y things for cheap. Or if you're not into vintage, they do sell nice, normal, fairly up-to-date attire. Essentially, you do not have to go around town looking like a total asshole. It's like the people who still have mullets and are not being facetious or ironic about it. What gives? Clear, cognizant choices are being made here, and they baffle me. The Smirky Walking Cigarette was not actually wearing clothes from the 80s, or even the 90s. They would have looked a lot more worn. That means at some point in the last five years she went out and forked over some amount of money for a jacket not even a tacky grandmother would wear.

Or, she was given a bag of clothes and it's cold out, and she had absolutely no other choice but to wear this coat. Not only that, but she has too many other important things going on in her life to care about trivial crap like the fact that she's wearing a jacket that even my high school Spanish teacher would have rejected, even though it would have techically matched her shiny metallic gold shoes. See, this is what makes me a horrible snob. I care less about the fact that I have to wait my turn than the fact that I have to wait behind this particular individual, the Attitudinous Nicotine 80s Queen. Blah, I really do suck. (But she does, too.)