I saw her at the ballet. Heading towards the ladies’ room, I quickly joined the queue. We didn’t speak, just eyed each other over then avoided further interation. I don’t like her, and as I write this I ask myself if that’s a true statement, because I don’t know her well, at least not personally. I generally tend to like people, or let people ride out their fantasies of who they think they are at whatever moment in time, with natural deviations, over time of course, because it’s all fine by me. So let’s simply say I have an aversion to her. And she to me. I wasn’t that surprised to see her at the ballet, although I never noticed her at the ballet on any earlier occasion. She’s thin and tall, so I can see why she’d be drawn to the ballet.
It’s just that her office hangs full of fat things, which I have found surprising for a thin woman, who obviously has cashed in on her lean looks and authoritative bearing. On prominent display on her office wall is a large oil painting full of obese people. As in all the human figures in the painting resemble pigs. Pigs with ties, pigs with hats, round buttocks bobbing, matching flushed cheeks under bulging eyes, and there she is in her office with her black wad of hair, pale face, long and thin, sporting high heels. The thing is, I was saying to myself after the intermission, if she had practiced ballet she would not be wearing those heels what with bunions. She wears heels all the time. It’s her look, and she only has one look: short skirts, fitted jacket and heels. “The stairs are way too slippery.” She stated in a building meeting to discuss the renovations, noting that it wasn’t good for her choice of shoe apparel, insinuating that we must approve of her coquettish mannerisms. I do not believe that anyone in that meeting remotely sympathized with her, even when she batted her large eyes at our group pleading for support.
“I firmly believe everyone can be a leader.” She said this on the next occasion to a small number of people assembled around her, all admiring her lanky form. In her office. A fat juicy tit sculpture, a multi-colored nipple revealed itself on a pedestal in the background. What is it, I asked myself, watching this scene, is it that she’s the modern definition of attractiveness and success without, as fashion dictates, the earthy pulp so she decorates her office with pudgy people parts? The brochure to her office is full of pulp. “What can you offer as a leader to make a difference?” A large screen above, a block clogging the window area. I shudder every time I see it, because of the time I was there for another building meeting on a Friday after office hours, and the screen was playing strategic propaganda in the background. “That they allow those obsolete cars on the road! I drive a Jaguar.” She cooed to her little crowd. Nothing was accomplished at that meeting.
At the ballet I searched around me to see where she was sitting. (I had a better seat.) In the orchestra. Her husband accompanied her, and he was decked out in a wide checked suit. It made him look fat. It’s not that she doesn’t have taste, it’s more of Dare to Have Taste kind of taste which is not particularly tasteful. Loud, yes. Take, for instance, the floor tiles in her office. Totally out of proportion with the building. The tiles bug me each time I see them, pulling the room apart.
I imagine the next time I run into her in the hallway with no place to escape, she might be piqued to inquire, “I didn’t know you like the ballet.” Then I am supposed to defend myself I suppose, because her tone would be belittling, and I probably would retort back, “What were you doing there then?”
Yes, it’s at that low level. Just because she complained, at her very first occasion to attend a building meeting, about people smoking outside the building, and suddenly turned directly to me, short and not thin peon to be used and abused, and without any sign of factual insight attacked, “I take it that you are a smoker.” I, unsparingly, gave her a long dirty look.