The Hoity Toity Factor

The enabler in chief has given me permission to skip the gym today. It's snowy and windy and crappy out and I don't feel like walking the 3 blocks over. Imagine what it was like when we belonged to a gym 7 blocks away. Now that was an ordeal. So anyway, I hurt my foot on Sunday and I'm trying to determine if it's a stress fracture or a sprain of some sort. The enabler in chief says it's okay to stay home today. She likes having me here, keeping her company. Besides I finished the laundry and put it away, and loaded the dishwasher and ran and got the mail. So don't guilt trip me, okay? Okay.

Got on the elevator a short while ago to go down to the mail room and get today's mail. There was, for lack of a better term, a hoity toity woman in a fur coat on the elevator. She lives in the building. I live in the building. Most people exchange pleasantries in such a situation. Common courtesy and established modus operandi, so I spoke. "You're making me feel guilty here, going out in this mess. I usually go to the gym on Tuesdays, but I'm trying to convince myself not to. It's pretty bad out." Then I smiled and nodded. Hoity Toity Woman snapped back, "I don't have a choice. I'm late and I have to pick up my son from school." Then she pulled out her cell phone and began punching numbers. Well excuse me. Didn't mean to put you out by actually speaking to you. I mean this woman positively oozed attitude that said, "Who are you, low-life, to speak to me?"

Then we reached the first floor. The elevator doors opened and she shot out without a word or a nod. Dave the Doorman opened the door for her and she nodded and said, "Mr. Olsen." Then she promptly went through the revolving doors into the weather and disappeared to get her son from whatever hoity toity private school she sends him to. Can't be far. She was on foot. She didn't ask Dave to get her a cab.

When that woman disappeared into the elements I found myself wondering two things. The first was "Mr. Olsen? Who the hell walked in?" I know Dave the Doorman's last name is Olsen, and some pretentious sorts call him David on occasion, but let's face facts he's a Dave. This is the guy who tells off color jokes to the tenants. This is the guy who keeps a bookie employed and in the money. This is a guy who admits that his favorite pastime when not working is drinking until all hours of the night. Mr. Olsen he is not. Dave he is.

The second thing I found myself wondering was, what kind of prissy kid does this woman have that he can't walk home from school by himself? She didn't drive to get him. She walked to get him. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, it's possible that he's a little kid and goes to pre-school or day care or such. But what the hell, this is not a woman who works. This is Hoity Toity Woman in a fur coat. She spends her days shopping, getting her hair and nails done, getting pedicures and spa treatments. Why in the hell does this kid go to day care and have to be picked up at 4:30 in the afternoon by Hoity Toity Mom? Answer: She spends her time shopping, getting her hair and nails done, getting pedicures and spa treatments.

Maybe I'm being a little harsh. She probably has to go to yoga classes too. There are those important luncheons with friends and it's possible she sits on the board of a charity. Still can't help thinking, though, that this kid she's picking up would be fodder for a beating down in the neighborhood where I teach...,over and over, even if he is only 3. They make some fierce 3 year olds down in Back of the Yards.

What really gets me thinking is, however, what exactly gives this woman her attitude, her sense of "I'm better than you."? How does that work? I live in the same building as she does. I'm one of the owners, not a tenant in a rental unit. When she ran into me in the elevator I had just come from work and was dressed in a professional manner, so it wasn't like she could judge me on my slovenly appearance. It's not like it's apparent that she's a rich Hoity Toity Woman and I'm a mere school teacher with pretenses of being a writer. From whence comes the attitude?

The only answer I can come up with is just "It's the Hoity Toity Factor." This is a woman of privilege who came from privilege, who married privilege, who expects every man on the face of the earth to fall at her feet. Okay maybe she didn't come from privilege, just married it and wants to treat everyone else like shit because she thinks her looks and her fur coat entitle her to this. If her looks should begin to fail, she has the best cosmetic surgeons at her beck and call. This is a woman who would never dream of calling Dave the Doorman, just Dave, nor would she ever put up with being subjected to his off color jokes or insights into the betting world or drunken carousing stories. This is Hoity Toity Woman.

Just one problem. If she's really that Hoity Toity, why does she have to go get her own kid? Shouldn't she be one more step up the social and economic ladder? Shouldn't she have a servant to go get that kid? So spare me the attitude Ms. Hoity Toity. That's a pretty cheap looking fur coat anyway. Think I'll go back to my place and have a glass of Baron Philippe De Rothschild Mouton Cadet. Your hoity just doesn't seem so toity anymore.