The other half
“I think there's just one kind of folks. Folks.” ~Harper Lee
It’s how one would expect it to be. ‘They’, with their 1.5 million dollar homes, compulsively clad in J. Jill and Lacoste. The women debate the possibilities of National Cathedral versus Sidwell and the men discuss Democratic politics and the green at some exclusive golf course in
Then there’s me. Compulsively clad in champion shorts and a St. Lawrence t-shirt. The butt still wet from time at the pool. I rolled in looking like the help and that’s exactly how I felt. I hadn’t had a pedicure in ages due to a hectic schedule. I wasn’t wearing jewelry because of the aforementioned pool time (pearls and chlorine do not mix). Then I was forced to attend a garden party at some upper
Of course I don’t know exactly what they may have thought about me upon my arrival. But I know that I was sweaty and dressed in my pseudo-gym clothes and wholly unprepared for such a thing. I felt like I was being looked upon with pity and that they thought that I would only assume Caravaggio was some sort of venereal disease.
I hate the assumptions that people may (or hell, may not) get when they see me under dressed. Not to mention that I actually saw someone at this party who I had worked with before and I knew I would be working with again in just a few short months. It’s not like I try to assimilate or anything, but I know when to wear my Polo and carry a Coach bag and when to wear my mesh shorts. They assume things just by looking at me, because that’s human nature; to judge. They didn’t know that I went to American, that I’ve lived abroad and that I have a real job and that maybe I babysit because I have a lifestyle that I became accustomed to and I’d like to keep that lifestyle.
Anyway, people judge and when you show up looking like hell to a garden party in an affluent neighborhood, trailing behind the perfect little family (who will be sending their child to Sidwell), then you feel like shit and like the help. It’s like being punched in the gut and the entire ride home I spent on the verge of tears.
It hurts. And it’s just another reason go get home and enjoy my wine. Sweet, sweet wine.