Dear Earth Mother,
Look, I didn't say anything last Thursday when it happened, but I should have: I'd like an apology for the way you just cut in front of me at the farmers market and paid for your corn and heirloom tomatoes, slyly pretending not to see me out the corner of your eye. Yeah, that was me, the frowning, middle-age chick in the Ramones t-shirt balancing a large canvas bag full of cantaloupes, beets, and potatoes in one hand, and a seven-pound organic freaking watermelon in the other, all while fumbling for two twenties in my ironic Hello Kitty wallet.
I had a feeling something like this might happen when I first laid eyes on you ruthlessly shucking corn over the big plastic bin, your nose ring glinting sharply in the sun, armpit hair wantonly displayed with each movement of your yoga-sculpted deltoids. The way you greedily grabbed those ears of corn and savagely tore off their husks while lecturing your not-yet-weaned preschooler, whose name is probably Luna or Orion or Vespa, about the virtues of gluten-free veganism…. Well, the whole scene just screamed, “Look at me! I'm entitled!”
Like other upscale faux hippy granola moms, you probably have an unused Vassar degree in Art History or maybe an M.F.A. from Brown stashed somewhere in your closet. And maybe you have a large trust fund that you steadily drain on a monthly basis or a father who made millions off Ponzi schemes or hedge funds. Yet you insist on hiding your privilege by moving into distressed urban neighborhoods (thus driving up the rent for the rest of us plebeians) and dressing like a poor person. But your outfit last Thursday—ugly German cork sandals, a thin, frayed cotton skirt in a faded “ethnic” print (Tibetan seems to be the culture your crowd currently fetishizes), a stained men's cotton tank top—didn't scream “poor” as much as “homeless,” and, believe me, I don't take insulting the homeless lightly.
Was I surprised when you strolled up to the register with your perfectly ripened vegetables and your intelligent-looking child and pretended not to see that I was already on line? I can't say that I was. I just knew you thought you were better than me. Everything about you tipped me off that you were a narcissistic doucheburger (yeah, it's a word now): your aristocratic bone structure and purposeful strut, your once-wispy, white-girl hair that you'd let grow into dreadlocks, your “meaningful” Chinese tattoo—all of it just oozed arrogance. As you brazenly cut in front of me, I found myself hoping that some vengeful yet enterprising Chinese tattoo artist inked you with characters you thought meant “wisdom, strength, integrity, and peace,” but that in reality, roughly translated to, “Warning: My morning breath smells like an outhouse in August.”
In any case, I'm no square. I embrace non-conformity. I have no problem with opting not to shave or shower daily; going gluten-/sugar-/caffeine-/meat-free; being choosy about what vaccines are okay for your oddly-named child; or even getting your kicks from sunning your bunghole after a hot yoga workout. But I do draw the line at rudeness, especially when it's served up with a heaping spoon of self-righteousness.
So next time you saunter up to a register, sister, be it at the farmers market or that pricey new gluten-free cupcake bakery that just opened up in the neighborhood, driving up the rents even more, you better be on the lookout for me. Because I'll be there with my iPhone, ready to post a video on social media of an entitled-if-slightly-hirsute Karen cutting to the front of the line like she's freakin' Diana Ross at Studio 54. And in just a few hours, you'll be the most hated person on the internet.
At least until the next time Donald Trump tweets something stupid.