I'd forgotten how much I despise dealing with the real world. It's loud and crowded, and you have to wear pants of sturdier construction than pajamas.
Evolved, my ass! I long for the days of fig leaves!
By the time my appointment came around, as I sat in the waiting area in confining denim, all I wanted was to sign the papers I'd come to sign and go. Instead, I was afforded the opportunity (meaning my financial adviser was running late) to study the tellers at the bank branch where she was meeting me.
This branch, like any other in the known universe, employed all three of the different types of tellers:
- The Token Gay Man--wearing a well-fitting button-up in robin's egg blue and a navy tie striped with just the slightest hint of pink, this guy spends hours perfecting his "just rolled out of bed...two hours ago, shaved with the grain, moisturized, moisturized, moisturized, gelled/moussed/pomaded/shellacked and flat-ironed the perfectly highlighted coif to give it the decidedly ungelled/unmoussed/untouched by any styling implement" sort of look that would make the finest of metrosexuals green with envy. This guy's not just gay. He's bank teller gay.
- The Past Her Prime PYT--sporting an over-processed Janis Joplin-esque 'do and a shiny polyester blouse tucked into her pleated wool skirt, this gal has seen it all. Once a beauty queen (approx. 1974), this former prize filly appears to have been ridden hard and put away wet. Despite her obvious love for Clairol Platinum Blonde, the feeling is not mutual. Past Her Prime PYT's are often relegated to the drive-up window as close proximity to her will cause Token Gay Man to simultaneously break out in hives, mentally add Alberto V05 Hot Oil Treatment to his shopping list, and desire to call his mother.
- The Hannah Montana Reject--the natural enemy of Past Her Prime PYT, this cute, bubbly, vivacious young twenty-something is quintessential window dressing. Her appeal is obvious to anyone who comes in contact with her, from the harried mother of four who remembers what it's like to be her, to the gun-toting good ol' boy with a Calvin-pissing-on-a-Chevy-emblem window decal on the back of his Ford F-350. Hannah Montana Rejects are, oddly enough, often named Hannah, and come in a variety of colors--white, off white, alabaster, beige, cream, and eggshell. Commonly seen in the company of other Hannah Montana Rejects and Token Gay Men at Old Navy or Hollisters.
I seem to be a Token Gay Man magnet, as they are always the ones who help me. Unfortunately, they're also the ones who make me feel the most self-conscious. Not because they're gay, but because they're prettier than me, and have luminous skin.
Plus, they're cattier than the Past Her Primes, and wittier than the Hannahs, which sort of makes them naturals at this blogging thing. And if there's one thing I don't need to read, it's this...
- Thirty-Something Democrat-in-Denial--pairing flip-flops and track jackets with everything, and in dire need of a root touch-up and clay-mask treatment, this bank customer is in obvious denial of the passage of time. She dresses like a Berkley student despite her claims of being a hippie-despising Republican, and can often be heard quoting Napoleon Dynamite. Typically located wandering the frozen food section of the supermarket with a cart with a squeaky wheel and a corresponding twitch in her eye, the Thirty-Something Democrat-in-Denial is generally harmless, though she can be incited to lengthy bouts of sarcastic blogging if provoked. Be advised to keep a safe distance.