Let's face it: when I go out, I turn heads.
I don't mean this as a self-serving statement oozing bravado; I happen to wear a lot of bowties and embroidered western shirts and sharp hats--so I get the attention because clearly I crave it. Occasionally the heads are turning away from me to snicker. . . but that's neither here nor there.
I have this super excellent new curling sweater. Don't take my word for it; take the thousand words that leap to your mind when you look at these photos:
Tonight, at Costco (my first official shopping visit to this mecca) my wardrobe curried unexpected favour from a mother and her daughter.
B- (on the phone with my mother) "Blah blah blah."
A- (a near whisper)"Oh my God!"
B- (still on phone) "War in Iraq! Har har har!"
A- (interrupting) "Excuse me? My father had that exact sweater!"
B- (holding down the phone) "Really? It's a sharp sweater--the old pheasant hunting motif!"
A- "My father's dead. . . but I remember him wearing that sweater so clearly."
She was looking at me with the same dazed wonder a blind man looks at the sun. I, for once in only a handful of times, was at a loss for where to take the conversation. Dead relatives are a tough thing to discuss with strangers.
A- "Where did you get it?"
B- "Oh. . . I got it in Kensington. . . in Toronto."
The daughter piped up:
C- "Mom. Check the label--see if it's his."
At this point I thinking, 'Shit. I hope this isn't dear ol' dad's sweater. I love this sweater! I don't want someone crying all over it and offering me $20 so that she can have a sentimental piece of her dearly departed!"
A- "No. It was such a popular design, I guess. I had a deer on mine."
B- "Yeah! They're very popular! I know this guy has a football player on his."
C- "Check it! Maybe it's his."
B- (staring daggers of the Teen Queen)
A- "No. It likely isn't his."
B- "Would you like to check?"
A- (puts her hand on my woolen arm) "No. It was just a nice coincidence to see it. Here. On you."
That hand on my arm, I could have sworn, felt like it was creeping up my sleeve.
B- "Well. . . I better keep shopping for large quantities of things. Take it easy!"
And we parted. Thank God.
The last place I want to start hashing out old Electra complexes is in the pickle aisle of Costco; I would fear over-stimulation.