Inframed wrist
When not at work, I dress...erm...casually (that is a kind description). Mind you, I am not wealthy but pay my bills on time and still have a penny or two left over to purchase the odd thread bobbin or pocket watch fob. I recently visited one of our little town's posh frame boutiques to purchase a...you guessed it...picture frame. Whilst perambulating the aisles hoping for the perfect frame to jump out and smack me, I was bushwhacked by a young salesperson doing her best Daughter of the Proletariat impersonation. Now understand, in this shop you simply don't browse and you always have the staff design the look, matting, and frame for whatever requires the aforementioned framing.
You know the type: impeccably pressed, stylishly cut flannel and denim attire, new work boots that never saw a clod of tilled earth or minute of mean street, perfect makeup, immaculate nails, and carefully coiffed hair meant to convey that I-just-came-in-from-the-fields tousled look. "Can I help you, sir?" she chirped in that nauseatingly clipped, sing-song way it seems young women from Pompano Beach to Pebble Beach are now required to ooze. As I explained that I was browsing until something caught my eye, I was the recipient of the up-and-down look from the lass that suggested less than flattering inferences about my ancestry and net worth. It was then I happened to notice the wristband she was wearing. "What's that?" I asked, already sensing what 'that' was. It was blue, electric blue, and this was my very first blue band encounter.
She literally beamed, forgetting for an instant my shabby clothing and obvious lack of taste. She proudly held up the plastic-rubber trinket so that I could clearly read "Enlightened American" stamped on the band. Yup, it was one of those trendy wrist bands worn by people that never seem to be happy. She gushed forth, explaining that it was her way of showing that she cared about democracy, that everyone's vote should count, that she was against dirty air and water, hated George W, and agreed with those lucky enough to live in Blue States. All in one breath, or so it seemed.
Those that know me are now expecting an account of how I shredded this perky but clueless young woman. Not so. Smoothing down my tattered Miami Hurricanes sweatshirt and hitching my worn jeans over my expansive middle, I smiled and thanked her for our conversation, then added that perception is not always reality. With that I strolled out of the store, honestly amazed that there really are people like that. I suppose I would have purchased a frame if they stocked them in red.