I don’t like snobs.
That’s why it has upset me so much to realize that I have become one.
Somewhere along the way, I have internalized a sense of decorum that I consider acceptable. And I am discovering that I don’t have a great deal of patience with a breach of that decorum.
A sense of style, or a joie de vrie, I can accept. That doesn’t matter. It enriches our lives to experience the things that make us unique.
It’s the disregard for the way that things should be done, that makes me crazy. And it is frightening how very much it does so.
Believe me, the fashion police would take me in. I am not a style maven. But I form an immediate opinion of the woman in public with her underwear showing and dressed twenty years too young. And the man with more jewelry than any two woman glaringly obvious in the way-too-many-buttons-undone opening of his shirt, you don’t want to know what I attribute to him (or the lack thereof).
I still don’t wear white shoes after Labor Day. Bra straps are not an accessory. And as cute as the Junior department clothes are, they belong on Juniors.
So what to do about the snobbery? And am I missing out on wonderful people with generous, loving hearts because I deem them someone less than who I wish to know?