Travel & Lifestyle Freelance Writer | Market Research Consultant
Just had one of those horribly awkward encounters where someone comes up to you and starts chatting like she’s one of your oldest friends, but you (or, in this case, I) have no idea who the heck it is.
I scraped by with a few nods and smiles and then managed to get away with both of our senses of dignity intact.
I’m just rather horrible at using it. In my defense, however, neither of these pictures was taken in very good lighting.
This is my French boyfriend. Note the baguette in his bike bag. He speaks French … well, sort of.
Am I a horrible person for thinking this is hilarious?
OK. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a fashion Nazi, nor do I claim to be.
I don’t have a pair of those tight black leggings that are all the rage. I can’t pull off the Ugg boots look. And I’ve never posed as a movie star with bug-eyed, bedazzled sun glasses.
But I have lived in Colorado long enough to love the fact that I can go out to a bar in a Patagonia fleece and ripped jeans (Clarification: Jeans that I ripped, not precisely placed tears where some worker from Abercrombie went to town before putting the pants on display.)
I can appreciate the fashionistas who follow In Style magazine’s advice to a tee (shirt … designer label, of course). But I just don’t understand the boys strutting around in skinny jeans (I’m sure half of their little asses are smaller than mine) tucked into their boots.
It’s unflattering. It’s awful. And it tells me far too much information about the temperature outside.
Maybe I should be a bit more forgiving. Many of these offenders are undergraduates who can’t be blamed for their abhorrent sense of style. They’re so cute and little and they’re still learning about themselves and their individuality.
But come on, guys! We’re Boulderites, if only temporarily. We value functional, comfortable clothes. We wear outfits that imply we just came down from Longs Peak and will be swimming a couple miles later on this afternoon.
Go to NYC if you’re going to brandish your OO waist size and boots that take 15 minutes to lace up because of the 47 different eyelets. It will be much more appreciated.
So I was walking through the Boulder Book Store, which is quite a fabulous place to peruse the latest titles or old favorites, and there on display is a book titled something along the lines of “Wild Colorado.” And to exemplify said “wildness,” some crafty editor placed a picture of a bright yellow bird … canary, parrot, hummingbird … I really don’t know enough about avian life to tell you what particular kind of winged creature it was …
And I’m not saying that birds aren’t wild. I’m simply suggesting that a photo of a bear or a mountain lion might have been more representative of the chosen adjective. Colorado’s mountainous habitats are home to these beasts … we might as well use them for marketing, don’t you think?
There’s a main strip here in Boulder called Pearl Street. It’s filled with shops, nice restaurants, street performers (in the summer) and often, a lot of homeless people.
On my way from the University of Colorado campus to a meeting with my editor for Peaks Magazine at a Pearl Street coffee joint, I walked right past a scuffle, that’s right, an altercation (and no, Dad, I was not in harm’s way). It was mohawed homeless guy versus buff yuppie. The latter was spewing profanities warning the former he’d better “Back the f*** off.” Apparently he’d been standing too close to, whistling at or doing something to the girl striding along with the rich dude. Something enough to warrant threats of bodily harm.
So what does the journalist do? Do I bust out my camera phone and start taking video? Should I yank a used napkin out of my bag and begin furiously scribbling notes? Do I intercede, offering more concern for the potential brawl participants than the possibility of a story?
Really it was just life happening. Perhaps more exciting and violent life than is habitual, but life just the same. Does the public have the right to know that two men exchanged words and threats? Or does the privacy of these two individuals supersede a journalist’s “scoop”?
What did I end up doing? Well, I walked by, looking over my shoulder in an attempt at discretion every few seconds.
Oh, and I blogged about it.
From now on, whenever I go for a walk with a dear friend and the wind is blowing fierce and strong, I WILL use conditioner in my hair the next time I shower … even if I’m only hopping into the wet-stream briefly to de-stink.
Augh … I think I have a few bald patches …