Why didn’t anyone tell me?

Last Friday, I was waiting on line at Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf for my vanilla latte when a complete stranger tapped me on the shoulder.


“Excuse me,” she said … “You still have the size sticker on the back of your jeans.”


I was completely mortified. 


“I’d want somebody to tell me,” she said.

After thanking her profusely, I quickly peeled the sticker off my pants and put it in my tote bag. I was really glad that she told me, but then I realized that I’d made it all the way from my apartment in Queens to my office in Manhattan — past hundreds of other commuters — who didn’t tell me. And that really pissed me off.



(Image courtesy of NYC Recessionista)

Why on Earth didn’t anyone tell me? Seriously … isn’t there some sort of line about this in the girl code that expressly states that women are supposed to let each other know when they have a tag sticking out, broccoli in their teeth or a hair out of place?

I can remember several years ago when I spotted a young girl who was so clearly headed into a job interview in a brand new suit, and she had that ‘X’ stitch holding the vent closed on the back of her suit jacket. I had to stop the poor girl and tell her … because I didn’t want something silly like that giving her perspective employers the wrong impression.

I know that countless people saw me walking around like this … so why did it take an hour of me walking around outside in broad daylight before someone voluntarily clued me in?

Has this ever happened to you?