The door to the fabric store swings shut with a electric groan as I stand inside the threshold.
In my head, I hear the haunting “ooooheeoooheeeooooohhh wahwahwahhhh” music as a lone tumbleweed comes to rest against the thread rack.
(BTW: Despite what that smarty-pants psychiatrist told me at my last court-ordered evaluation, having your own personal soundtrack makes life so much more vivid.)
The two grey-hairs behind the cutting counter whisper in muted tones, and avoid making eye contact. I slowly move towards the back, shaking off the dust and cold of a hard ride through the culturally-barren suburban landscape.
Other shoppers drift into side isles, or suddenly feign interest in items on the closest rack as I draw near. Their befuddled discomfort is palpable.
I hear an old woman softly call her small child closer to her. I mean, really… what do you think lady? That I’m going to suddenly break out into a Cabaret tune, abduct your grandson, and whisk him off for enslavement at the secret sweatshop where LGBT rainbow and “pink triangle” flags are made?
So, go ahead Grandma just keep pawing your bolt of Rayon, in that hopelessly outdated pattern, and feel the burn (baby, burn – disco inferno!); your time is past. There’s a new sheriff in town.
What makes these women jump to such unfortunate conclusions? I do a quick mental inventory:
- male Registered Nurse? [check]
- owns a Fluffy dog? [check]
- “Too good to be true” devastatingly handsome looks? [check]
- Bold sense of style and attention to visual detail? [check]
So yeah, I see where they might make assumptions.
But they would be wrong.
So wrong in fact, that it makes both pairs of Truck Nutz hanging from my Crystal Blue minivan shrivel like a January dip in the Lake of Unintended Sorrows.
So here’s the deal ladies: Save your stern judgments and scornful looks of disapproval for the other parishioners at your church. I’m not playing.
I am the one percent.
I am going to occupy your tacky little rag shop, without a double-X gendered chaperon.
Deal with it.