Sunday, February 20, 2011

The upper-middle working class

For the past 13 years of my life, between the first Tuesday after labor day and the last Thursday in June, Mondays through Fridays, with exceptions for holidays and breaks, I have woken up and put on my uniform. When I was younger, I wore the jumper; navy and green plaid with red stripes. The best thing about the jumper was St. Patrick's day, because you could pinch the hell out of boys (who wore gray pants and navy polos), but girl's had a sort of diplomatic immunity provided by the indisputable green on the jumpers.
In sixth grade, I graduated to the plaid skirt. Matter of fact, I still wear some of my skirts from sixth grade. It has yellow stripes. Which I hated at first, because they looked like Challenger's uniforms, and of course, Waterford was above Challenger. But those skirts have grown on me.
So the other day, I was at work. Work is a cashier earning a lovely $7.25/hour minimum wage salary. On this particular Thursday, I hadn't bothered to change. So I was wearing my uniform skirt and my black ever-classy work shirt. I was walking around the lobby, straightening magazines, picking up trash and the like when a customer noticed my skirt.
"So, you go to Waterford?"
"Are you on scholarship?"
Excuse me? Thanks for implying that I wouldn't possibly be working here if my parents could afford tuition. Lord knows kids whose parents could afford Waterford tuition wouldn't be working. They're all spoiled brats who have never earned anything in their life, much less minimum wage.
"No actually, I drive a Lexus"

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