My Man
Urban Outfitters, picked out a couple of shirts for Winston. I figured it was time he experienced the V-neck.
Counter, skipped waiting in line because I was paying with debit. Do New Yorkers carry cash on them all the time? Are they not scared of being mugged? Do muggers go for cash or credit cards?
Anyway, counter, scanning them barcodes and the cashier asks me if I was buying clothes for My Man.
“Buying clothes for your man now?”
Choice A: I respond with a detailed explanation of how my brother is the love of my life but he’s overseas and I am obssessively paranoid about his developing sense of fashion and in order to prevent him from going the Japanese metro route I am now buying him hipster stripy shirts instead even though that is generally what the Japanese trend is leaning towards and I am actually fine as long as he never touches skinny jeans, but this would be tmi and does she really want to know this? No.
So I went with Choice B: I said “Yeah.”
And then I felt very asdkfjals;dkfj because the concept of having a person labeled as My Man freaks the shit out of me. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen for a while.
On a lighter note, NEW YORK CITY IS A SPLENDID ERUPTION OF WONDERFULNESS. Apologies for the disgusting vocab choices.
