Blonde Highlights

Whilst designing a graphic for a consultant at my job:

Me: Okay, you want me to highlight the important items on this roadmap, right?

Consultant: Correct.

Me: Which ones are the important items?

Consultant: The ones in blue.

Me: All of them are in blue.

Consultant: Yeah, they're all important.

Me: You want me to highlight all of them?

Consultant: I guess so.

Me: That means none of them will be highlighted.

Consultant: The blue ones need to be highlighted.

Me: I understand that, but if you highlight everything, everything ceases to be highlighted. Like if I asked you to highlight the important part of a book, and you highlighted the whole thing. People aren't going to think that the whole thing is important. They'll just think the highlight is the regular font.

Consultant: Oh...okay, well, that one isn't as important. You can not highlight that one.

Me: Congrats to that item, then. That'll make it the most important item on the page.

Consultant: What?

Me: It's the only one that draws the eye. You look right at that one, because it's the only one that's different. It's the girl in the red dress in a sea of black suited men. It's the David Bowie of the page.

Consultant: You really think people won't get it?

Me: Dude, I don't get it, and I've got you explaining it to me. This entire conversation has arisen because it's hard to get. You have to pick, like, 20-30% of these to highlight for highlighting to be a thing.

Consultant: Oh man...some people are going to be mad at me.

Me: Are any of them your boss?

Consultant: No.

Me: You ought to be fine, then.

There's an Old Lady That's More Badass Than You

Right now, there's some old lady walking around who think's you're lame as shit. Because not every old lady evolved from a square suburban Donna Reid knockoff. And for every ten that played the part at the time, there was one who put on that apron and cooked dinner every day at four because she didn't know what else to do. In the back of her mind, though, she was thinking about getting bombed on whiskey, stealing a car and fucking a stranger. She'd have done every thing in the world if she thought she could get away with it. 

Everything in the world. 

And she's got a daughter that think's Brad Pitt is hot, and a grand daughter that thinks Chris Pine is hot, and she. Does. Not. Get. It. Because she's thinking—in these words: "Pansies haven't even killed a guy. They're just actors. Call me when you've got some scars from a knife fight, pussy."  

She thought that shit. 

She still thinks that shit. 

And you met her at some point. You might have passed her in a grocery store or saw her in line at the DMV. You just cataloged her in your mind with all the other background extras of your day. Scenery in the play which is your life, but she was there. She was covert, too. Nobody knew. Her husband didn't know. Her friends may have suspected, but she didn't tell them.

No one knows she was thinking: 

"If I weren't 83, I'd fuck shit up right now. I'd seduce that boss that felt up my ass at the Christmas party in 1953, take him into the copy room, and beat the shit out of him with whatever was in there. I'm all bent over, and he died of cancer already, but if I had a time machine...that's the first thing I'd do."

One time, she was driving home from book club, and she pulled into McDonalds on the way home. She ordered 2 Big Macs and a regular cheeseburger and fries, and she just sat in her car and ate all of it. Then she bummed a cigarette off of some kid out back and smoked it—and she hadn't smoked in years. She sat in her car, smoked a cigarette and just muttered "fuck all this shit. I hate these stupid books. I wish I was reading something about those guys who went around the country in a van, dropping acid and running around naked, or something. And I'm reading Sense and Sensibility to impress these shrews."

Then she threw the empty bags away, put out the cigarette, sprayed on some purfume to cover up the smell, and went home. And her husband was in the garage, working on his car that didn't really need working on, but which gave him an excuse to have a couple beers, and he said: 

"How was book club?" 

And she said: 

"It was fun!"  

And he said: 

"Well, Good. I'll be in in a second." 

Then they went to bed.  

It never really got bad, ya know. Like, no breaking point occured. If her husband were more of an asshole or something, it might have. Or if they had a little more or a little less money, that might have done it, but things were good. It was a good life.

But all that was still in the edges, waiting for a cue. Just never happened. And no one knew. 

Nobody. 

She'll take it to her grave, because the time to mention it never came. And it didn't really need to, but it was still there. 

All of it. 

And that old lady saw you, and you were a background character in her story, and because she only caught a glimpse of you for a minute, she just thought you were some kid, waiting in line at the DMV. And her inital, knee-jerk reaction was:

"Psshh...lame." 

And you both went about your merry ways.