judge not, lest ye be judged

When I was 16, I worked at bagel shop in south Minneapolis. And despite my chronic unpopularity with boys and the indisputable fact that I was in an ugly phase that year, it someone came to my attention that "Eric," one of my teenaged colleagues, was interested in going out on a date with me.

I wasn't even the slightest bit attracted to Eric, but given my circumstances, I figured I should take what I could get. I accepted his vague invitation to "hang out" and asked what he had in mind.

"Well, I was thinking we could go the Mall of America. I mean, the mall has everything, right?"

I don't know if I sneered openly or if I merely muttered something noncommittal, but either way, the outing to the Great Mall never happened (and neither did the love match). The mall has everything? What kind of person could even say that, much less believe it? What kind of teenager thinks the mall is cool? (Now, thinking rationally, probably a pretty typical one, I suppose.) This was a turning point in the development of my personality: my desperation for male attention had given way to my burgeoning snobbery.

Okay, so it's wrong to judge people, right? I mean, I know it's a really shitty thing to do.

Like last week, when I was locking up my bike downtown and I couldn't help but overhear the conversation of a passing group of 20-something ladies: "So, you know Parasole, the company that owns Chino Latino and El Gatto? Well, they have this incredible deal where when you go to one of their restaurants you just get a stamp on this punch card and when you've got six stamps you get a free drink!"

People actually talk like this? They think these things and then say them out loud to other people? God, how boring!

Okay, so I realize these thoughts call attention to my shameful and previously unrevealed feelings of superiority. After writing so much recently about the hell that is other people, it's only fair that I finally unveil the truth--I am actually just as bad.

Take, for example, the coworker who entered the break room the other day, loudly talking to someone via an earpiece, his cell phone clipped to his pleated pants in a white-collar holster. He was wearing a tucked-in polo shirt advertising one of my company's products, and was talking about the details of his son's football practice. He set about the business of filling his water bottle with hard-nosed efficiency. In other words, he was the portrait of corporate American masculinity.

I slouched in my chair in the corner of the room, studying an eight-month-old copy of More magazine so as not to make accidental eye contact. "I am definitely a lesbian," I thought to myself.

Like my friend Mark once said, "There are good people everywhere...but they're a different kind of good people." We were on the subject of "work friends", and how when you're being held captive at a place of employment, you're not always in a position to be choosy. Whereas in college I could snob out to my heart's content ("Ugh, did you see Michael reading On the Road in the cafeteria? Plus, he wouldn't stop playing Tom Waits when he invited me back to his room..."), this position is simply not sustainable in the modern suburban workplace.

And this is how I find myself nodding in agreement as that girl from the tax department tells me about how she lost "five inches" after she started eating microwaved veggie burgers for breakfast, and listening intently as my coworker describes how much money he saves using "coupon theory", which he actually learned about in his MBA program--"You know those chocolate-flavored Teddy Grahams? Five boxes for $2.99 at Cub this week."

So you know, you get older and you start to realize that life is probably going to involve making some compromises, and that you'll probably be happier if you can convince yourself that your boss is "just fiscally conservative"...not the other kind that would require you to quit on principle.

All this makes me look at my various relationships and wonder who might be "settling" for me. "Shannon?" they might respond, when a real friend asks about their association with me. "I don't know...yeah. Work is pretty boring, and she's always up for making the drive to Pineda Tacos...so."