Sometimes, when I’m up at Reggie #1, I dream of being rescued… Richard Gere style (Pretty Woman or An Officer and a Gentleman, take your pick). But there are several things wrong with this picture. For starters, I’m not a prostitute. And I’m not a factory worker, either. I’m just going through a phase, and the feminist in me objects to the thought of being rescued all together.
It just so happens that a friend of mine from Baltimore tried it once. Unfortunately, he decided to “surprise” me at work on one of my days off. Having had the audacity to be at home watching CSI Miami during the precise moment that he arrived at The Shop, I missed my one and only chance of being carried off into the sunset—or the Wal-mart parking lot as it were so I suppose it’s just as well.
Nowadays, I pass the time by checking out the male clientele. Of course, being that I work in an arts and crafts store, its slim pickings (insert your favorite homosexual joke here, and no I’m not going to do it for you because gay jokes aren’t funny. Plus, you can’t assume a man is gay just because he’s buying ribbon, and even if you did assume such a thing, I’m pretty sure you’d be wrong. At least, I’m hoping— for my sake— that you are).
Sometimes I wish I worked at a hardware store instead, this way I could at least meet loads of presumably-straight men while my brain lies a-wastin’. But then, when I follow this thought to its logical conclusion, I remember: Oh yeah, if you work in a hardware store, you have to be able to answer questions about, well, hardware. Also, you have to wear one of those orange Home Depot aprons and I have serious doubts about my ability to rock the apron look. Not that I’m exactly rockin’ The Shop’s regulation polo shirt, but I try my best.
For example: most days I wear earrings to match my standard issue polo shirt but every once in a while— if it’s Friday and I’m feeling feisty— I match my earrings to the company logo embroidered on my standard issue polo shirt instead. Genius, I know. I’ll be writing fashion columns for Elle, Cosmo and the rest of the glossies once their editors get wind of this, but until then, I’m experimenting with colored socks. Nothing too flashy mind you, just various shades of black and navy, and, if I’m feeling truly experimental and cutting edge (and, coincidently, haven’t done my laundry), brown.
This way, when Richard Gere (or Matthew Morrison, since I’m dreaming) comes to sweep me off my feet, he’ll take a look at my socks and realize that he has found himself a creative type.