I've been faced with many strange questions in my life ("Are you Asian?" for example, thrown at me from an otherwise nice black kid from across the foyer at MATC; "Your kid's?" for another example, brought to me by a not very nice gentlemen who clearly thought I was a mother (W.T.F., I say) after explaining to him that I was missing the [afternoon Red Sox] baseball game [broadcast on Fox]) - but by far the strangest question I was greeted with earlier this afternoon.
"Are you a clown?"
Was it the pin-up girl pigtails? The plaid shirt, the farmhand jeans? If so, since when do clowns dress in such a manner without their pounds of goofy make-up? I don't believe I wear pounds of goofy make-up because I hardly wear any make-up in the first place.
Perhaps, and more likely, it was the twelve rings (no, I only have eight fingers and two thumbs, thank you very much). Perhaps, and more likely, it was of course my tattoos - in which case I am not a clown but a carnival attraction.
More likely still, this fine specimen of a Red Hatter was just another one of the walking callouses I'm dealt with on Wednesday (the one day a week when the older of the species come out in droves, mean and ugly and demanding 10% off their 25 cent purchase), a walking callous who forgot her spectacles.
Perhaps, and more likely, it was the twelve rings (no, I only have eight fingers and two thumbs, thank you very much). Perhaps, and more likely, it was of course my tattoos - in which case I am not a clown but a carnival attraction.
More likely still, this fine specimen of a Red Hatter was just another one of the walking callouses I'm dealt with on Wednesday (the one day a week when the older of the species come out in droves, mean and ugly and demanding 10% off their 25 cent purchase), a walking callous who forgot her spectacles.
No comments:
Post a Comment