Shoulder Pads

NYC is, and by my best inference, has been, without shoulder pads for at least a decade. You are more likely to see a three-headed dog walking down Broadway than a woman in shoulder pads. It is only in Denver that they still pass as high fashion.

While attending the aforementioned band concert, I took a break from rolling my eyes and making faces long enough to look up to the stage and watch the performance. Conducting the 9th graders was a woman whose silhouette resembled that of a Dallas Cowboys linebacker. I can only imagine that her shoulder pads could have doubled as airplane floatation devices. I tried my best to stifle a laugh and moved on with my life. Until I noticed the rest of her outfit, that is. Her pants were at least five inches too short, with the gap between her clunky shoes and the hem occupied by thick, white athletic socks. I started laughing and pointed it out to my mother, seated to my left. She smacked me and told me to be more sympathetic. "Maybe she doesn't have enough money for new pants," Mom hissed. (Why the linebacker couldn't have bought pants that fit the first time around is beyond me.)

I spent the rest of the concert pouting, distraught over my failed attempt to mock the less-fortunate. Until next time, I guess.