There are some people you encounter after years apart and think, Oh, how nice. I wonder how they’ve been.
And then there are people you encounter and immediately realize that, despite the passage of time, the universe has apparently made no meaningful attempt to alter the trajectory of their existence.
Recently, during district-wide professional development, I encountered one of those people.
A former colleague.
Well… former colleague makes it sound far too ordinary.
Let me put it this way: I encountered a familiar human being who had apparently stepped out of some alternate dimension, checked the calendar, noticed it was District-Wide PD Day, and thought, Excellent. This is the perfect occasion.
She had not changed. If anything, she had become more pronounced. And mind you, this was inside a classroom.
A classroom.
Not a yacht. Not a resort. Not the patio of an expensive Mediterranean restaurant where everyone is drinking something with cucumber in it. Not even an outdoor garden luncheon where one might reasonably expect a certain degree of theatrical accessorizing.
A classroom.
She was wearing a wide-brimmed, floppy sun hat—the kind of hat that doesn’t merely sit on your head but seems to have its own gravitational field. The brim cascaded outward in a dramatic halo, threatening to make physical contact with anyone foolish enough to sit too close.
Then came the sunglasses. Not ordinary sunglasses: Glam sunglasses. The sort that communicate, ‘I may be here for professional development, but I could also be leaving shortly for the Cannes Film Festival.’
And then I noticed the gloves.
White.
Leather.
Long enough to extend beyond the wrists.
Inside the classroom.
During PD.
I paused internally.
There are moments in life when the human brain quietly stops processing individual details and instead begins assembling them into a larger question: What, exactly, am I looking at?
Around her neck was a fancy scarf, carefully arranged with the kind of precision that suggested the scarf had been briefed beforehand on its responsibilities.
And then there was the pen. The bedazzled pen. Of course there was a bedazzled pen. Because apparently an ordinary writing instrument—something manufactured specifically to perform the humble task of putting ink onto paper—was simply too pedestrian.
No. This pen had entered the classroom with jewelry.
But perhaps the most impressive detail was the hydration situation. There were not one, not two, but three rather large Hydro Flasks.
Three.
At first I thought perhaps I had miscounted. Surely there couldn’t be three. But there they were. Three enormous metallic vessels of hydration, standing in formation like a small battalion.
At some point, I began wondering whether one contained water, one contained backup water, and the third was reserved for an emergency requiring special water. Maybe one was electrolytes. Maybe one was lemon water. Maybe one was simply there because two Hydro Flasks weren’t enough to adequately express the magnitude of her commitment to hydration.
Whatever the explanation, I found myself staring at the entire ensemble and thinking: This woman has not changed. Perhaps that’s what struck me most.
Years had passed. People had moved on. Jobs had changed. Circumstances had changed. Life, in its usual relentless way, had continued marching forward. And yet here she was. Still unmistakably herself. Perhaps even more herself.
There was something almost comforting about it. Not necessarily pleasant. But comforting. Like seeing an old landmark that somehow survived every renovation around it.
You know exactly what you’re looking at. You may not understand why it exists. But you recognize it. And suddenly the memories come flooding back—not necessarily specific conversations or events, but the energy of the person. The particular cadence. The distinctive mannerisms. The little things that made you think, even back then, Well, that’s certainly one way to approach being a human being.
Except now the volume had been turned up.
Way up.
I mean, anyone can wear a scarf.
Anyone can drink water.
Anyone can own sunglasses.
Anyone can carry a nice pen.
Anyone can wear gloves.
But when you combine the floppy sun hat + glam sunglasses + white leather gloves + fancy scarf + bedazzled pen + three massive Hydro Flasks, you’re no longer dealing with a collection of accessories.
You’re witnessing a lifestyle manifesto.
And I suppose that’s what made the encounter so funny. It wasn’t that any single thing was outrageous. It was the commitment to the whole production. There was an almost operatic quality to it. She hadn’t merely arrived at professional development.
She had entered it.
Like the classroom was a stage and PD was the performance. And somewhere behind the scenes, I imagine a wardrobe department whispering: “Do we think the white gloves are too much?”
“Absolutely not.”
“The hat?”
“Bigger.”
“Three Hydro Flasks?”
“Obviously.”
“Bedazzled pen?”
“Don’t insult me.”
And so, years later, I found myself sitting in a district classroom, surrounded by the familiar trappings of professional development—Slide decks, institutional carpet, fluorescent lighting, dry-erase markers, laminated objectives, the faint smell of coffee that has been sitting in an urn just slightly too long—and there she was.
A vision. A spectacle. A woman who had apparently made a solemn pact with herself never to become less distinctive.
And honestly? I have to admire that.
Because most of us, over time, become a little less conspicuous. We simplify. We blend in. We become practical. We quietly surrender some of our eccentricities to the demands of adulthood.
Not her.
No.
She apparently looked at the passage of time and said: “I’ll be having none of that.”
And I respect the consistency. I really do. Because in a world where everything seems determined to change us, there is something almost heroic about encountering someone who has remained so thoroughly, unapologetically, spectacularly themselves.
Even if “themselves” happens to involve three Hydro Flasks and white leather gloves in a classroom.
Especially then.
Some people leave an impression. Others apparently leave an entire production design. And today, I was reminded that some people don’t merely walk into a room.
They arrive with accessories.
There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com.
Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing—one post at a time.
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© 2026 Mariano Velez ~ InkBlotz Press
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