Wearing a rather ugly flannel shirt in plaid, burnt out with some intentional rust stains, and procured on some exasperating visit to Marshall’s or TJ Maxx when I needed something different, I waited while the cashier at Price Chopper rang up some items. She was a young girl in her twenties maybe, and exuberantly asked me how I was. Mimicking her exuberance – I hadn’t quite decided whether to be nice or snarky – I said I was great and asked how she was doing in a tone that anyone who knew me would describe as manic and aggressively not-friendly, but then quickly slipped into nice mode because that usually ends things quicker. She said she was good and then looked at my shirt. The aforementioned flannel shirt. Clearly, obviously flannel. Plaid.
“I like your blouse,” she said.
“Blouse?” I asked, my snarkiness returning despite my best efforts.
“I’m just bougie like that!” she replied.
My look must have indicated my feelings, and it went beyond any Resting Bitch Face I would typically conjure, as she immediately began defending her ‘blouse’ comment.
“What would you call it? It’s more fancy to say ‘blouse’ right?”
It was amusing now, and I didn’t want her to panic. “I’ll take ‘blouse’!” I said. “I love fancy. Normally I would just call it a shirt. A flannel shirt.”
So now I wear blouses – and, truth be told, I always did.
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