The desire for a smoothie today got me into a very unpleasant situation.
I know what you are thinking: smoothies are like a healthier milkshake and therefore above reproach. And I agree, there is nothing unpleasant about a smoothie. However, faulty planning can mar even the most perfect of fruit beverages. You see, I decided to go and get smoothies for myself and a few of my work-time compatriots during my break at 3 p.m* and 3 p.m.** is the worst possible time to go anywhere in a small town.
[*,** Note to build suspense and over-all word count: I have recently had occasion to brush up on the AP standards. As a result I know all sorts of things, like that one should write “Calif.” instead of C.A, and that my use of ** is rampantly inappropriate. Also, when you have occasion to say “goddamn” in a newspaper it is disrespectful to slap a capital “G” on there. Now I can “who vs whom” with the best of them.]
3 p.m. is the worst time to go anywhere in a small town for one simple reason: it roughly coincides with the moment that high schools roll back their pearly gates and free their frenzied denizens. And it would so happen that the smoothie joint of my choice (I’ll give you a hint, it involves two J's, and is the Starbucks for pseudo-hippies) was located at an unfortunate proximity to the high school. And the parking lot of the shopping center where the double “J” is housed provided many of these teenyboppers with parking.
As I halted before the crosswalk choked with teens, cursing the Jansport-ing masses, I tried to distract myself by reflecting whimsically on how freaky-weird the high-school thing is. Where else can you see people walking around eating straight from a bag of Doritos? People who aren’t homeless, I mean.
Far be it for me to say anything that might be construed as nice about the youth, but these kids looked damn elated to be released from school. I guess that daily joy is a mass-mentality thing that people forget about due to the sporadic nature of college socializing and classes, but I vaguely remember what it was like.
When I was in high school and before I had my driver’s license, I used hang out around the bus stop after school everyday with some kids who I assumed were socially adventurous, but in fact were just lax in hygiene. I really envied these kids (who walked home from school after my bus retrieved me) because I thought that walking seemed like the ultimate social event; the antithesis of a stifling bus ride home reading ahead in my English books. After I got my license I would troop everyday to the corner where most of “I read The Onion during computer lab, aren’t I clever” set parked their cars so that I might drive the four grueling blocks to work.
Sitting in my boiling hot car today in Jamba Juice gridlock, I tried to summon sympathy by recalling my love for my first car. It was a Chevy Blazer in a faded black, called “Tux-y” by my friend Amanda for reasons too geeky to relate. I was so proud if my car, with the hairbrush on the shelf below the dash, and a backseat full of strategically showy sci-fi novels (bad early- 80s stuff with faded yellow covers). I was particularly proud of the CD player (as I would later be strangely proud of the desk-top background on my computer) and I played unlabeled Beatles CDs and weird burned SKA (always an all-caps word for me) mixes that I kept in one of those CD folders on the sunshade.
When the masses vacated and I finally got to a parking spot this afternoon, I clambered out of my car and attempted to cross the street. Some lady in a grande “sand-colored” SUV braked to let me pass and added a haughty eye-roll to her hurry-up wave. Although mildly embarrassed, I understood completely.
With my short stature and my shitty car, she undoubtedly took me for one of the enemy. I am however a completely different breed of youthful blight: the under-worked post-collegiate secretary desiring a smoothie.
I know what you are thinking: smoothies are like a healthier milkshake and therefore above reproach. And I agree, there is nothing unpleasant about a smoothie. However, faulty planning can mar even the most perfect of fruit beverages. You see, I decided to go and get smoothies for myself and a few of my work-time compatriots during my break at 3 p.m* and 3 p.m.** is the worst possible time to go anywhere in a small town.
[*,** Note to build suspense and over-all word count: I have recently had occasion to brush up on the AP standards. As a result I know all sorts of things, like that one should write “Calif.” instead of C.A, and that my use of ** is rampantly inappropriate. Also, when you have occasion to say “goddamn” in a newspaper it is disrespectful to slap a capital “G” on there. Now I can “who vs whom” with the best of them.]
3 p.m. is the worst time to go anywhere in a small town for one simple reason: it roughly coincides with the moment that high schools roll back their pearly gates and free their frenzied denizens. And it would so happen that the smoothie joint of my choice (I’ll give you a hint, it involves two J's, and is the Starbucks for pseudo-hippies) was located at an unfortunate proximity to the high school. And the parking lot of the shopping center where the double “J” is housed provided many of these teenyboppers with parking.
As I halted before the crosswalk choked with teens, cursing the Jansport-ing masses, I tried to distract myself by reflecting whimsically on how freaky-weird the high-school thing is. Where else can you see people walking around eating straight from a bag of Doritos? People who aren’t homeless, I mean.
Far be it for me to say anything that might be construed as nice about the youth, but these kids looked damn elated to be released from school. I guess that daily joy is a mass-mentality thing that people forget about due to the sporadic nature of college socializing and classes, but I vaguely remember what it was like.
When I was in high school and before I had my driver’s license, I used hang out around the bus stop after school everyday with some kids who I assumed were socially adventurous, but in fact were just lax in hygiene. I really envied these kids (who walked home from school after my bus retrieved me) because I thought that walking seemed like the ultimate social event; the antithesis of a stifling bus ride home reading ahead in my English books. After I got my license I would troop everyday to the corner where most of “I read The Onion during computer lab, aren’t I clever” set parked their cars so that I might drive the four grueling blocks to work.
Sitting in my boiling hot car today in Jamba Juice gridlock, I tried to summon sympathy by recalling my love for my first car. It was a Chevy Blazer in a faded black, called “Tux-y” by my friend Amanda for reasons too geeky to relate. I was so proud if my car, with the hairbrush on the shelf below the dash, and a backseat full of strategically showy sci-fi novels (bad early- 80s stuff with faded yellow covers). I was particularly proud of the CD player (as I would later be strangely proud of the desk-top background on my computer) and I played unlabeled Beatles CDs and weird burned SKA (always an all-caps word for me) mixes that I kept in one of those CD folders on the sunshade.
When the masses vacated and I finally got to a parking spot this afternoon, I clambered out of my car and attempted to cross the street. Some lady in a grande “sand-colored” SUV braked to let me pass and added a haughty eye-roll to her hurry-up wave. Although mildly embarrassed, I understood completely.
With my short stature and my shitty car, she undoubtedly took me for one of the enemy. I am however a completely different breed of youthful blight: the under-worked post-collegiate secretary desiring a smoothie.
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