Nate for President

If you were to put yourself in my shoes right now, you would probably have to sit on my lap and try to squeeze your toes into the gaps between the tongue of my shoes and my ankles. There really isn’t much of a gap so you’re probably going to have to curl your toes down and then push against the top of the shoe’s tongue. It’s rather strong material so you’d probably have to hold on to my knees and push up so as to create some leverage.

That sounds really uncomfortable. Probably for both of us. So let’s say I take them off and give them to you. They’re a size 11 burlap colored Simple slip-ons; eco-friendly, uber-comfortable and only marginally soiled with life’s adventures. Check out that fresh coffee stain on the top of the left foot- the result of a loose top on a milk pitcher falling off mid-pour and splashing into my cup subsequently rocking my world and the counter with scorching hot Europa Roast. I hope hemp is easy to clean.

On second thought, the obnoxious foot sweat that is inherent with close-toed shoes in the summer, is probably irritating you so let’s just do this metaphorically instead.

Putting yourself in my place this morning should be quite a treat. Currently you are experiencing a fantastic Sunday morning view from a padded chair in one of Preston Center’s fast-casual QSRs. CBC, as those in the know refer to it, is quickly making its way into my rotation of food spots, and as of ten minutes ago, my favorite place to observe Dallas residents.

You’re probably asking yourself how a seemingly nondescript breakfast/brunch/light lunch place could surpass the hair-gel infested, Ed Hardy plagued, “ompha-ompha-ompha” clubs of Dallas as my favorite place to people watch. The answer is easy: hung-over-as-shit sorority girls.

Don’t get me wrong, Dallas clubs are filled with SMU sorority girls. These cute, petite blondes (definitely not using these descriptors in vain) love to frequent the “ultra lounges” (the definition of which I’m still not sure of) that are scattered randomly around our fair city. However, on Saturday night when they’re at the club they’re suppose to be drunk, they’re suppose to be acting cRaZy, having a gud time wit da gurrrrls. But the next morning when they’re at Sunday brunch with their moms, they’re not suppose to have pounding headaches, unbearable nausea, and the inability to look straight in one direction without having both feet on the ground.

There’s four of them- three blonde and one brunette. The blondes look great. Dressed conservatively in bright colored sun dressed and those light sweater things on their shoulders, nice jewelry on their wrists, possibly designer shoes on their feet- and huge, bruise colored circles under their eyes. Purple half moons, the size of silver dollars, stem from their lower eye-lids, the size of which could only be due to less than 3 hours of sleep, and surely more than 3 LITs.

The brunette, on the other hand, must have woken up later than the other three, or maybe doesn’t care what her mother thinks because she’s wearing Nike shorts and a t-shirt. Maybe she didn’t go to church, or maybe she partied a lot harder than the rest and never made it back home last night.

The other girls, especially the mothers, not surprisingly, are obviously appalled by the brunette’s lack of concern for appearance. The mother of one of the blondes shoots daggers at the brunette when she looks at her- but then changes her direction towards her blonde daughter where she smiles approvingly with her eyes. Shooting rainbows.

The blonde’s mother, who is hopefully not too good of an indication of what the daughter will look like when she grows up, doesn’t care that her daughter makes no attempt at trying to respond to her conversation. Or that her daughter is unable to piece together a few words and is despondently staring at her coffee. She wore a pretty dress. And for the next hour and half while the other mothers talk about the state of their daughters’ sorority, the stories about their daughters’ high school friends, and the pre-med students their daughters’ should date, all that matters is that her blonde daughter wore the prettiest dress of all the girls. She’s the most beautifulest one in the room.

I shouldn’t focus too much on this small little subset of the busily microcosm I’ve walked into, however. They’re really just a small subset of the others that surround me. The two gay guys by the window, holding hands and talking about what kind of dog to get. The family with four small children that is having a terrible time with “table manners”. Or even the two girls to my left that have actually been here longer than me and won’t stop yapping about some boy named Brad. However, in the least creepy way possible, I can’t stop observing this scene…

Oh, oh, the brunette just ran to the bathroom. Could it be a late morning vomit? Was it the oatmeal hitting the stomach the wrong way? Ohhhh the daggers. THE DAGGERS! The embarrassment. The shame. The view from Sunday morning.