Friday I learned to survive the Main Line moms. Don't get me wrong, I'm well aware that the hem of my Rollins slip peeks out from time to time. I've been known to wonder around BCBG touching every item. A touch of drool hits my lips when I see the new pink Coach bag being carried by a coworker, and I'm pretty sure I'd be able to buy a house with the money I spend at Starbucks in a year. Still, the Friday morning moms at my Gym manage to baffle me. After sitting in a circle on the floor for 45 minutes talking about germs while they let their infants jump on trampolines unsupervised, it was finally "stamp time". Every student in every class gets a stamp on their hand at the end of class for doing so well...or so I thought. As I bent down to give little Sophia a stamp, an eyeliner clad face popped in front of me. "SERIOUSLY. No stamps." She said giving me the stop sign with her manicured hand. "Oh, I'm sorry..." I stammered. "It gets ALL over their clothes and their face and I can't get it off for a week, so this class gets STICKERS." "I see," I replied rifling through the basket until I found the small tin of stickers. I just find it unfortunate that these children will have no practice for when they're older and getting their hands stamped for admittance to clubs in Manayunk, where they'll hang out with all the other Gucci and Prada tube tops and Ambercrombie button-ups.
"That's ok. You're just stupid"~KS on people who don't like The Godfather.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment