essssssssssay
my current revision of a description essay written for meine englishe klasse. Let me know what you think, mmkay? ♥♥
The leather seat squeaks as I pull my legs up in attempt to find some semblance of a comfortable position. It’s no easy feat. After a considerable amount of squirming I settle into my usual position; knees gently bent, feet alighted on the kiosk counter and chair rocked ever so slightly onto it’s back legs. That’s better.
Work is a bore. I work at a mall kiosk. It’s one of those that borders on the unnecessary, although I have noticed other stores that surpass it in that regard. I don’t understand how four distinct establishments within a single mall, that’s 2 kiosk and 2 stores, devoted entirely to sunglasses manage to stay in business at all, let alone in Tropical Tennessee. The iPod accessories that ought to be flying off my shelves must not be in as high demand as sunglasses because there’s a certain disparity of customers at my kiosk. The lack of steady business makes the main contention of my workdays staying occupied while staying within the designated 10 square feet of work area for 7 hours.
I’ve tried bringing homework, but I rarely so much as touch it while at work. People-watching is a far more engaging sport. More often than not, that’s what I do. But with such exotic exhibits, wouldn’t you? ‘Course you’d do it too. And so, rocked back on my tall chair, in a mindset somewhere between delicate serenity and nascent paranoia, I observe the commercial wildlife. Sometimes, under the correct circumstances, I catch a glimpse beyond the exterior.
I see people wearing hats. I notice a few exceptional ones. Trendy modern berets, fedoras and knit beanies with adorable argyle patterns.
I see boys walking their girls. An arm around her waist, a glazed look and Heely’s activated; she glides effortlessly beside him like a puppet.
I see daughters walking with their mothers. These two are quite a sight. They’re nearly indistinguishable until you notice the lines that time has stretched into the elder’s skin. I haven’t spoken a word to the mother but she’s already told me enough for a thesis. The skinny jeans, tight Hollister t-shirt and beach-blond highlights mirror the image of her daughter’s generation. All of it screams that she’s terrified of growing old.
In an instant I see snapshots of her past. A little girl is becoming a burgeoning adult. Eager but unsure, she looks around for some type of guidance. She finds none but the vague observation that the weird kids are ostracized for being weird. She realizes that to bloom and allow herself to develop into a true individual poses the threat of rejection.
That was just too scary for a little girl. How could she possibly live if someone might disliked her? What would she say when someone confronted her about it?
Instead of taking that self-defining risk, the girl focused the entirety of her energies on hiding her insecurities under a mask of attempted physical perfection. Outer beauty was the only surefire way she saw to gain the attention and self-justification every human being innately seeks. And here, years later, is the girl who put all of her stocks into the unavoidably transitive and inevitably declining beauty industry. It’s no large effort to see how to her, age and decrepitude are the most terrifying specters.
Just as the woman’s appearance mirrors her daughter’s present, the girl’s appearance mirrors her mother’s past. I feel a certain sadness in realizing the tragedy is twofold. The first is for the mother who spent an unfulfilling life hiding from fears and uncertainties. The second is the for the daughter, who’s observable emphasis on trendy outer appearance prove without a doubt that the mother succeeded in her matronly duties of teaching her child everything that she knew in the world: Fear and insecurity.
As the bleach-highlighted heads move out of my view I reflect on my entire seventeen seconds of observation. Most people I notice are a flash-pique of my curiosity, details of which are slowly stolen by time and an undedicated mind. However, this pair won’t lapse out of my memory anytime soon.
The leather seat squeaks as I pull my legs up in attempt to find some semblance of a comfortable position. It’s no easy feat. After a considerable amount of squirming I settle into my usual position; knees gently bent, feet alighted on the kiosk counter and chair rocked ever so slightly onto it’s back legs. That’s better.
Work is a bore. I work at a mall kiosk. It’s one of those that borders on the unnecessary, although I have noticed other stores that surpass it in that regard. I don’t understand how four distinct establishments within a single mall, that’s 2 kiosk and 2 stores, devoted entirely to sunglasses manage to stay in business at all, let alone in Tropical Tennessee. The iPod accessories that ought to be flying off my shelves must not be in as high demand as sunglasses because there’s a certain disparity of customers at my kiosk. The lack of steady business makes the main contention of my workdays staying occupied while staying within the designated 10 square feet of work area for 7 hours.
I’ve tried bringing homework, but I rarely so much as touch it while at work. People-watching is a far more engaging sport. More often than not, that’s what I do. But with such exotic exhibits, wouldn’t you? ‘Course you’d do it too. And so, rocked back on my tall chair, in a mindset somewhere between delicate serenity and nascent paranoia, I observe the commercial wildlife. Sometimes, under the correct circumstances, I catch a glimpse beyond the exterior.
I see people wearing hats. I notice a few exceptional ones. Trendy modern berets, fedoras and knit beanies with adorable argyle patterns.
I see boys walking their girls. An arm around her waist, a glazed look and Heely’s activated; she glides effortlessly beside him like a puppet.
I see daughters walking with their mothers. These two are quite a sight. They’re nearly indistinguishable until you notice the lines that time has stretched into the elder’s skin. I haven’t spoken a word to the mother but she’s already told me enough for a thesis. The skinny jeans, tight Hollister t-shirt and beach-blond highlights mirror the image of her daughter’s generation. All of it screams that she’s terrified of growing old.
In an instant I see snapshots of her past. A little girl is becoming a burgeoning adult. Eager but unsure, she looks around for some type of guidance. She finds none but the vague observation that the weird kids are ostracized for being weird. She realizes that to bloom and allow herself to develop into a true individual poses the threat of rejection.
That was just too scary for a little girl. How could she possibly live if someone might disliked her? What would she say when someone confronted her about it?
Instead of taking that self-defining risk, the girl focused the entirety of her energies on hiding her insecurities under a mask of attempted physical perfection. Outer beauty was the only surefire way she saw to gain the attention and self-justification every human being innately seeks. And here, years later, is the girl who put all of her stocks into the unavoidably transitive and inevitably declining beauty industry. It’s no large effort to see how to her, age and decrepitude are the most terrifying specters.
Just as the woman’s appearance mirrors her daughter’s present, the girl’s appearance mirrors her mother’s past. I feel a certain sadness in realizing the tragedy is twofold. The first is for the mother who spent an unfulfilling life hiding from fears and uncertainties. The second is the for the daughter, who’s observable emphasis on trendy outer appearance prove without a doubt that the mother succeeded in her matronly duties of teaching her child everything that she knew in the world: Fear and insecurity.
As the bleach-highlighted heads move out of my view I reflect on my entire seventeen seconds of observation. Most people I notice are a flash-pique of my curiosity, details of which are slowly stolen by time and an undedicated mind. However, this pair won’t lapse out of my memory anytime soon.