“Hi, hon-,” Christopher interrupted his normal post-work greeting to me and, instead, looked me up and down in much the same manner Carrie’s classmates did her after the unfortunate pig’s blood incident.
“Is that what you wore to work today?” he finally asked/snarked?
“What?” I scratched an itch through a hole the good people at Diesel had pre-placed in the upper thigh of my jeans. “It’s Friday.”
After a long and, I think, judgmental pause, Christopher said, “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Please pour me some Diet Coke.”
Christopher makes a mean Thai curry chicken on Fridays, or I would’ve challenged his insulting tone of voice and disapproving eye.
My jeans are great. I love my ripped jeans. And every time I wear the t-shirt with Andy Warhol’s hot-pink Marilyn Monroe emblazoned across the front, I get scores of compliments from men and women, alike. I’m gonna say it, people: I looked cute. Nay! I looked super-cute.