The Fat Old Hag

Husband and I have always functioned with one car. Our schedules worked perfectly, and we never had any problems, but he has just started a new (much better paying) job and this has drastically shifted his schedule. At first we just dealt with the inconvenience of it all, but after he was forced to show up a hour late during his second week because I got held over a bit in class, we decided it was time to invest in a new car. Yesterday we both had the day off, so we got up early, put our haggling hats on, and set out on a hunt.

After hours and hours of dealer bull shit, we found a car we both liked. Ironically the same make and model of two prior cars I have totaled. (A sign not to get it??) It was listed at a totally reasonable price, but husband got them to drop it a grand and a half, so we took the offer. It was 5:15, and we figured we had plenty of time to get to the bank. We decided to put half down, and get a loan for the rest... easy peasy.

When we got to our bank, we were met by the cold eyes of a fat old hag, lets call her Ida. Her glares burnt through the back of my skull. She made several attempts to turn towards the clock and sigh heavily, as if to say she didn't want to deal with us so close to closing. She said she would help us, but what she really meant was that she wished we would go fuck ourselves.
She asked us a series of questions, and things were going fine until her computer "allegedly" lost all of our progress around 5:45, that's when she snapped. As we were going through round two of the same questions she made it a point to add a snide little comment to everything we said, letting me know how she disapproved of my "career" at the Steakhouse. She even sorted with laughter at my estimated monthly income, and when I said "That's not including tips" I heard her mumble "like it matters" under her breath.

Now here's the thing, at the steakhouse if someone shows up 1 minute before we close, I will serve them. I may not be overjoyed about it, and I may even bitch about it to the cooks in the back, but when I am staring at the customer, I am all smiles and rainbows and unicorns because for all I fucking know, it could be a secret shopper, or a big tipper.
Looking back, I am only bothered because of the way she she judged me. How her sickeningly obese eye looked down on me with disgust because of my "career" or my income. She doesn't know me. I am a student first. Waitressing is simply getting me through, a means to an end if you will. Whatever though, I'll let her have her laughs. I'll let her go home thinking how much better off she is then me because of her fancy desk job, her business cards and her plus size ergonomic office chair, although I secretly know one day she'll be my patient, begging for her life as I put her on dialysis for fucking up her kidneys with one to many cheeseburgers.

Who will be judging who then?