I was able to score a beautiful Royal Blue, Calvin Klein wool (want some more ajectives?) coat on a song last December while home for Christmas, one of those purchases I didn't necessarily need but that I knew would bring me imeasurable joy. Black and Brown, while practical, don't exactly make the winter any cheerier. Now whenever I'm out shopping and they attempt to lure me to their incognito bosom, I pull out a tiny version of Jodie's mom from my pocket who shrieks "COLOR! YOU NEED MORE COLOR!" which is possibly the first thing she ever said to me upon meeting me years ago. The coat also scores points for being warm without suffocating me when the temperature creeps past fifty and being pretty roomy while somehow managing to not make it appear as if I am smuggling a sherpa across the Gowanus.
Like most wool, it can't get wet, like, AT ALL. The minute I am caught out in the rain in this coat, it is Stink City, and the smell is an acrid, unavoidable cross between a home perm kit and a wet Labradoodle. Armed with this horrible knowledge, if I plan on wearing it to work, I'll usually make the effort to check the day's forecast so I can avoid feeling like Dawn Wiener on the F train amidst a gaggle of clicky girls standing a few feet from my seat:
Hosebeast in gaggle: Uggggghhhh, what IS that? It smells like burning hair. Gross!
Cue hyper self-consciousness while I frown nervously into my paper. But what can I do? Taking it off won't help unless I crumple it in a ball and shove it in my bag or something, and not even my Big Ass Bag can contain a winter coat--I'm pretty much stuck
.
.
Hosebeast a stop or two later: Okay guys, it's like REALLY getting bad now--what IS IT?"
Gaggle: I know! Ewww!, etc.
Me, not exactly proud of owning up to stank, but Christ, move or shut the FUCK Up, Harpies:
It's probably me. This coat smells like wet dog when it gets wet...so yeah.
excruciating pause
Hosebeast, in her best Regina George , Christy Masters, Evian Carrie Graham: Oh I'm *sure* it's not you!
Gaggle: whisperwhisperwhisperTITTERwhisperwhisperwhisperwhisperTITTERwhisper, before the group moves en masse toward the next bank of seats.
Gaggle: GUFFAW! SNORT! BRAY! SHRIEK!
--fin--
SERIOUSLY, bitches?!? It's not like I just exclaimed, "Oh that's me--I shit myself, HA HA HA!" A little empathy, mayhaps? You couldn't save your jackal laughter until after you got off the train, since logic should tell you that moving a few feet behind me does not actually put me out of earshot? Granted, maybe on this one I should have just let the Elephant in the Room (car?) swing around and around the pole instead of piping up, but I was kind of under the impression that I left junior high in junior high and that had I been in their shoes if someone emparted the same self-deprecating confession, I would have said something like, "oh, I totally hate it when that happens," or just smiled sympathetically before ever-so-discreetly moving away if the smell was really that bothersome or whatever. Apparently I give F train passengers far too much credit.
So....the Special People's Club--any takers?
2 comments:
"You think you're hot shit, but you're really just cold diarrhea." I think that Welcome to the Dollhouse quote pretty much sums up those bitches, in a nutshell. How old were they, anyway? I seriously can't believe anyone over twenty would behave like that. I'm pretty sure THEY are the ones who belong in a Special People's Club.
They couldn't have been too much younger than us, although my barometer for these things post-college is totally skewed...but whatevs, another thing I forgot to mention that secretly gave me the last laugh was that they were excitedly chatting about going to their first "kick-ball meet and greet" for the year. Adults playing Kick ball is definitely on the "Stuff White People Like" list and is for total pussies. Come play a sport with sticks, bitches-I'll knock your teeth out! Accidentally, of course.
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