or how i learned to stop caring.
Well, not me.
Yesterday, i drove the Blue Bomber out to the local mall. Needed to make a stop at Sephora (a wonderful candy store chock full of makeup, perfume, and all the things that we chickas love.) for some necessities: mascara. Eye liner. New Perfume.
You know, all the stuff that the men we love say we don't need. But skip one day without it and it's, "bloody hell - you're not going out looking like THAT are you?"
Anywho....whilst i was stumbling around, looking for an eyeshadow that i didn't need (just like i don't need new 12x12 paper, or embellishments, but that's another post), i counted eight employees in the store.
One was working the register. One was applying makeup to another customer. The other six were yakking about.
There were maybe around four of us customers in the store. And i watched with amazement & amusement as the employees would ask the other customers how they were doing, do they need any help, blah, blah, blah.
Was i offended? Perhaps. But i realized that all the customers they were talking to were about their age.
Hey. i'm no fool. i wouldn't want to waste my time with an old broad like me, either (even if i do think i'm cool & fun, and well, you get the idea.) But then i realized something that made me laugh. Hard.
I have WAY more disposable income. i can spend, spend, spend. And unless these hottie-totties have Daddy's inheritance or a platinum card, they've got a budget. Me - i do as i please.
It may be a "young persons" world, but there's more of us than there are of them. People my age are the new majority. We're freaking taking over!
And the revolution will be televised. Coming to you live from Sephora.