That feeling you get when you defend someone's perfect execution of an espresso (tiny cup, light foam layer, superheated water) only to find out it's instant and he makes it with a kettle every time is that feeling that you've shed some sort of facet of yourself, a fake persona that begs to be set free from all of the put-upons.
Liberating.
This is also exactly the way I feel when I walk into a makeup store fresh-faced. I want to tell them to ease off the judgement, that I'm shopping, for Christs sake. That's a notch below yard work on my chore totem-pole and so why would I dress up or bother putting on makeup for it? Makeup is for fancy nights out, not for the mall, in my universe but then again, I was raised by wolves.
Wolves don't wear makeup. And BOY, do people judge the shit out of you if you head into a place without being covered in the thing you're seeking. Maybe I ran out and that's why I'm here with none on. Maybe I don't know the difference between commercial-made espresso or even espresso made with a machine instead of a kettle and jar setup.
Here's the difference. I'm not fucking pretentious! THAT'S WHY.
Oy. It totally touched a nerve. Wait until I get into visiting car-dealerships in my gardening clothes. STOP FUCKING JUDGING PEOPLE.
Yes, I do it too, because it's human nature, but mostly I do it sweetly, with a lovely fully-fleshed out story to go with what I think I see. It's far less malicious and far more entertaining. And I usually forget that everyone is making fun of me because I'm sheltered or whatever thing they're harping on in any given day.
I don't even know why I wrote this, other than Caleb thought he could take August down a peg by pointing out the espresso he makes (that's so good) is from a kettle and a mix and since I didn't care I got called naive. Which is neither here nor there but pissed me off a ton because it feels just like when I go in Sephora or Mac and they ASSume that since I'm not wearing makeup, I must not know how to use it and that's how I developed my fun story about how it's a shitty chore, shopping is. The higher-end the store, the more they love Caleb and hate me, basically.
It's a ramble. Sorry.
He is one of them and I am, clearly, one of me.
