For the first time in my life, I contested a ticket. It was really for nothing serious - I got pulled over on a sting operation cracking down on cell phone use in the car. (Admit it though, just using the word "sting" made it sound that much cooler).
As guilty as I am of texting, facebooking, tweeting, talking on my cell while driving, I actually was 100% NOT on my phone when I got pulled over. How about that for kharma? Anyway, I contested it because I figured I may have a case, not to mention the ticket was for some serious bucks and I was feeling rather confident about this one.
Which leads me to my court date.
It is incredible what people wear to court. Mindboggling, actually.
Personally, I figured I'd really dial it in and look semi-profesh. Meaning I wore some cute Miss Sixty trouser pants with heels, a black silk tank with a black blazer. Upon arrival, this outfit confirmed me as one of the, oooh, maybe 5 people who actually were employed.
At least that's what I assumed when I saw the clothing options at Superior Court that morning.
My favorites:
Male. 30-something. White wifebeater (bonus points for it being a little baggy, he may have slept in it the night before). "Falling off your ass" jean shorts, complete with a larger than necessary flash of boxers. FLIP FLOPS. "Louis Vuitton" motif flat-brim Yankees hat.
(sidenote: LV is obviously in quotes here as I don't know that they would ever legitimately create a thugged out New York Yankees hat. Just sayin')
Female. 20-something. Possibly 40-something. Coming from the club or going to. (FYI It was a 9:30a court appearance)
"Have no clue how she got them on or buttoned them up" dark denim skinny jeans. Stripper heels, complete with clear plastic platform. Red lycra top exposing her brilliantly big rack. Gold hoop earrings that fell to her shoulders. Red lipstick to match.
Male. 20-something. Definitely in college. Definitely asked all of his friends for a suit - each friend gave him only a piece of a suit.
Floral tie that hung just a bit too short. Denim-like button up shirt. Wrinkled khaki pants. Pothead hair.
I think you're getting the picture.
As I waited patiently, still buzzed from the night before and really enjoying my people-watching, the woman beside me starts barking about how she had been there awhile and people's names were being called before her.
She theorized that "apparently they're calling whoever has money or whoever looks the best first."
I'm sure by now you're wondering what she was wearing. Biker shorts. Biker shoes. Biker gloves. Workout tank top. Backpack with her helmet attached, clanking everywhere she walked.
Thank goodness I bit my tongue here, because she followed by saying, "If my name doesn't get called next, I'm gonna go crazy. I'm bipolar. I'm talking CRAAAAAZY."
My name was called next.
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