Two women whose faces and bare backs suggested that they were in their 50's but whose clothing items seemed to have been co-opted from a spoiled teenager's closet, were sitting in the same area I was also occupying during one of my very recent travels.
The area, as I describe it to my person over text, was an almost too balanced a fusion of a somewhat-anxious, post-Wall-Street-crisis-informed, nouveau riche-pretending space and affected Bohemia.
I found myself sporting a smug smirk which, had I actually seen it in a mirror, I would have detested it. But that day I didn't seem to be bothered by the fact that I was looking smug for it seemed to be an appropriate reaction.
To my left I see another woman in her late 50's or so whose shoulders were evidence of a rather disciplined regimen of yoga and pilates and her darker skin color suggested that her visits to her local tan salon were at least bi-weekly. The hair seemed to say, 'Hey, look at me. A French-speaking stylist named Robert (who leaves the 't' out when pronouncing his name) with genius hands and out-of-this-world-smelling shampoos was frolicking with my locks for well over an hour. The result: absolute lusciousness.
And, as these thoughts were swimming in my head, I could feel the smug smirk approaching the enclaves of my face again.
How's this for minimalistic? I ask.
Yeah, B.R., how do you like them apples?
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