I was once called on the carpet at work by a superintendent who was famous for his brightly colored polyester blazers. He had seen me at a school function without socks. This was back when men often wore loafers without socks. (I know it was fashionable because I saw Matt Lauer do it.) This was years before polyester made a brief comeback. I don't think the man was ahead of his time. Evidently he had bought a couple of double knit sportcoats in 1972, someone told him they looked nice and he believed them.
But even when the temperature dips into the upper thirties overnight as it will tonight I still just pull on a pair of shorts, a sweatshirt perhaps and my flip flops or athletic slides to run brief errands. I am only going to be outside the time it takes me to get from my truck to the inside of Wal-Mart. It's not like I am traveling with the Donner party across the Northwest passage.
Most often it is their infamous greeter that says something. I admit I often ignore their cheery, "Aren't you're feet cold?" and stroll on past. What I really want to do is comment on their outfit or their hair.
"Don't you need to touch up those roots?"
"Did you get a discount on the extra perm solution at the store's hair salon?"
"Did you flunk color coordination in Kindergarten?"
"Nice vest!:" (of course they all have navy blue polos now since the remodeling. Now that was a bold corporate fashion statement)
It isn't always the employees that are concerned that my feet are still exposed in October There was one particular lady in town that consistently felt compelled to comment on my flip flops last autumn.
I contained myself for far too long. After all, I hadn't asked her why she wore those god-awful holiday sweatshirts with the glitter that would have been a health hazard if it had fallen off into my produce. (The fact that I never eat produce has nothing to do with it. Just another reason not to eat fresh fruits and vegetables as far as I am concerned.) I never asked her why a supposedly straight grandmother of four had her hair styled (and I use that term lightly) like a man's. After all when I grew my hair long a few years ago I was highly suspect in the community. (for good reason I suppose)
I finally had to confront her. "Why does this bother you?" I asked, testily.
"I'm a mother. I am afraid you're feet are cold."
"Well, you are not my mother!" I retorted haughtily and walked away, confident I had put her in her place. But the very next time she saw me in flip flops in November she asked again!
Don't you hate people that are impossible to insult?
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