Damn It, Sally

Earlier today (and every, I mean every, single blessed day), there was Sally, attempting to walk in shoes that missed practical by several inches. Sally looks great. She always does. She of the 3-inch stilettos, the canny, platform-soled elevator wedge heels (elewedges?). Sally is fashionable. Sally is pretty. Sally looks composed and professional and stylish. Until she has to move.

So there’s Sally in the one and only long and narrow hallway which leads from work to parking. And she’s, you know, not moving quickly (because she just can’t; the shoes never permit) and she’s not-moving-quickly square in the very middle of the long and narrow hallway.

Damn it, Sally. Look up from your phone and stop texting. See, if you would look up for a second, you would notice that the madding crowd is on your stylish heels. And we’re all frowning. At you. Because you are (a) blocking egress from the building and (b) you’re not doing it quickly and (c) you’re oblivious. And (d) do you really have nowhere you need to go?

Hug the wall, honey. Move to the side. Hell, Sally, just stop and stand there and we’ll all go around you. Like a river around an eternal and immovable rock.

Sally does this in the mornings (the texting, the mincing, the oblivion) too. And Sally has a posse or twins or lots and lots of copycat admiring wannabes who do the same thing. In the mornings, in the evenings, my days are filled with Sally: Speed-up, Sally and Seriously, Sally and Shit, Sally, and Just-Move-Already, Sally. A surplus of Sally. A superfluity of Sally. Sally, Sally, everywhere– except out of everyone’s way. But I guess you’ve got to give her credit because, my god, her shoes are just darling, after all.

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