Being at the bottom of the food chain

SUCKS.

Momentos

Preppy sweaters
Soft skin
Crisp white sheets
Issey Miyaki
A list of songs
British accents
A pendant
Little lane ways
Dogs
Stolen afternoons
Stripey socks
Indulging the day
Buttons
An intimate moment
Cufflinks
That apartment
Maroon boots
Vietnamese Beef noodles
Restraint
Sharp shirts
Good coffee

I would go on, but where do I stop?

Just have to say

I don't know what it is with these... strange types. Those types who ponder and think and mull over whether or not to get that pair of black pants they've tried on for the last half hour now. That straight black pair. In the classic cut. Which look like... standard, black trousers, that look like every other pair of standard, black trousers.

I understand if money is an issue. Despite the fact that you cannot grasp the concept of going somewhere within your budget, where there is something available to you for the set amount of money you are willing to spend, and that standing in those pants for an eternity is not going to change the digits on the price tag.

I can understand if you want to be 110% sure you love those pants without a shadow of doubt because, hey, you need to be absolutely sure you will actually end up using this pair of standard, black pants which look like any other pair of black pants. I may not love you, but I can still understand.

I can understand if you're in something radical, perhaps a pair that is only three-quarters long, or made of silk, or has holes deliberately put into it as part of design. But you are not.

I cannot understand -- and do tell if I'm the abnormal one here -- when someone stands around in a pair of standard, black pants, claims repeatedly her liking them, and looks and looks and looks at herself from every angle under the harsh shop lights, and then exclaims she needs to sleep on it because -- wait for it -- she needs to think about what she can wear with it.

If ever I needed anger management classes, it might as well be now.

I smile my pretend-to-mean-it-smile, tell her that's fine, and see you again.

Not two steps towards the exit, she spies and oohs at how this pink stripe shirt would actually look lovely with those pants. And then she finds a blue knit which will suit it very nicely, too. And oh my, even this mocha silk top. All of which I have already told her, mind you. In great detail. Of course, she says, you're right. Then again, she needs to make sure she has something in her wardrobe she can match it with, so she will be back soon. And this green top would work as well, wouldn't it?

I know I can grow in patience, that in fact, patience is often a choice. I am becoming more convinced, however, that some people cannot grow out of their stupidity. Can't expect much of half-wits, I suppose.

I just had to say, and now I have.

And tomorrow, I may well just have to say again.

How to tell someone's no longer a carefree uni student

She has a few things she can think of to say, but there is never time. Well, maybe there is, but there is certainly no energy, and any free time she finds on her hands is sleep time. To be fair, she has tried blogging -- specifically, writing up and tweaking drafts to post -- but yes, it takes that long that even she is over waiting.

It is that tiring, this getting dressed and made up each day, surrounded by clothes and all the things fashion, and complimenting clients to make them feel good about themselves so much so she could be a dairy cow, that much the amount of butter she churns, that she does not even have a night out, much less a vain picture or two of, to slip in in place of a decent rant.

The work is hardly rocket science (though be careful not to underestimate the skills and patience needed for it less you find yourself at one end of unfriendly debate), but by the end of each day, she is dead to the world. Hell, she is dead to herself.

Only one conclusion can be made: so not ready for motherhood (not that she wants to escalate there anytime soon); she needs some mothering herself.