97 degree weather in the shade and humidity worthy of an old cartoon, steam rises from the sidewalks, cats and flowers droop. Even the sun wears shades. Couple that with a house sans air conditioning and a family of eccentrics who could put David Sedaris' to shame, or at the very least share more than a dislike of potato salad at a picnic, and trust me, my family's one potato salad short of a picnic, which is to say that it's no picnic living at home this summer.
I spend as much time as I can in places that are air-conditioned and far from people whose DNA resemble mine. Spending an afternoon at the Barnes and Noble is infinitely better that hanging around at home, waiting for the various side-effects of medicines to manifest themselves in loud and boisterous ways, and watching them interact with other side-effects from other medicines taken by other people.
I spent the other day walking around the mall. It's a large and impressive mall, one of the largest in the country. Then again, our state is one of the fattest in the country, so maybe we need the extra room for the cheese-guzzling, brat-eating lardheads that travel from across the Midwest to drop some change in a mall that features taxidermy, two confectionaries, a gun shop, a leather outlet, four candle shops, and a massage parlor.
I was meandering about, minding my own business, dressed in my everyday attire: a Smiths t-shirt, too-tight jeans with a hole in the left knee, and flip-flps. While perusing the stores frequented by my youthful contemporaries (GAP, Abercrombie and Fitch, Hollister, etc), I was mistaken not once, not twice, not thrice, but four times as an employee. Sure, as a teenager alone in the mall pilfering the sale rack, there's a healthy chance that yes, I would be an employee.
But still, two people thought I was an abercrombie boy.
Imagine! Me, an abercrombie boy...
