Friday, April 18, 2008

The Marriot's Ladies Room

She spent all day listening to other people go to the bathroom. Sitting in a quasi maid’s uniform, repeatedly offering paper towels in broken English that belied a sharpness and insight that only comes with starting life over at the age of 40 or 50 or 60.

Rather than deal with intelligence that could hear them in their most intimate moments she was summarily dismissed by the thousands of perkily dressed mid-western mid-management women wearing their versions of the power suit they snappily wore with a Fortune 500 smugness at their NY conference before returning home to bland garden apartments or studios temporarily furnished for a pre-marital life.

One even demanded to know what that smell was and at the risk of being complained about, she shrugged a fuck you lady shrug and said “It’s a bathroom….”

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