On What Children Think of Me.

It wasn't until I started working in the Museum that I came into contact with kids. And it's not even direct contact. I actually avoid all eye contact and ignore everything and anything they say. Why? Because they're grade-school kids: the most terrifying kind of species known to man because they have developing brains and can talk and question you and everything they know nothing about. And worst...they know how to judge you because almost all of them have no filter.

* * *
Once you start commuting in New York City, you learn that you can't wear nice shoes every day. You're constantly standing, walking on pavement, walking up and down stairs, and/or getting stepped on by other commuters who are always rushing to their next destination. Sometimes people spit on your shoes. And you can't ignore all the dog shit that seems to be everywhere now that the snow is melting away. Everywhere. So because I'm a problem solver, I started wearing sneakers. I've been wearing sneakers for the past couple years because:

1- they're comfortable,
2- they're practical,
3- and it's a sign that you don't give a flying fuck what others think of you because you're a muh-fuhking thug.

And anybody who says otherwise can shoot me an email and we can fight via interwebz. Like idiots.

School groups visit the Museum in the mornings. And that's fine by me because I rarely ever have to walk around the Museum in the mornings. However, one morning, I had to use the copier machine located on the other end of the Museum. As I walked past one of the groups, a little girl spins her head to watch me walk past then whispers, loudly to a few of her friends,


"OH-MAI-GAWSSH THAT GIRL'S WEARING SNEAKERS WITH HER DRESS."

All the other little kids:

The few seconds it normally takes to walk through the gallery felt like slow-mo on slow-mo. The sneakers that should have helped me run away from those little judgmental New York-chic kids failed to do their one job: to quickly get me from point A to point B.


And before you get all pompous and ask me why I didn't just take off my shoes like an adult should have done when she first got to her desk, let me remind you how comfy sneakers are compared to heels or wedges or any other thing doesn't elevate half your foot. (Flats make my legs look stumpy.)

UGH. On the way back to my desk, I had to walk through the same gallery and of course, the same group of kids were still there. And this:


I get it. I'm not the most fashion-forward person and I don't claim to be but got-dang homies, CAN'T I LIVE? Apparently not. I don't have the confidence of an 8-year-old who grew up in Manhattan. I sometimes wish I had the balls to be like:


But then I remember they are children and if I did that to them, their parents would come after me with their diamond studded knuckle rings and I would probably cease to exist. Instead, I hold it all inside because I know that when they grow up, they may one day become my underlings. And until then, I will remember to change into my work shoes so they won't be able to cast another judgmental look at me.