I’m wearing a long baggy shirt, leggings and sandals. My hair is shoved into a ponytail. This is my standard outfit for cleaning binges. In the middle of cleaning, I make a run to the corner store and am hailed from the window of a second-floor apartment on the other side of the street. The traffic is roaring by, creating enough din that I can’t hear what the woman in the window is saying.
I put my hand to my ear and shake my head to show that I can’t make her out. She yells to me again and so I walk across the lawn and stand right next to the building.
“I’m sorry,” I holler, “I can’t hear you.” I figure if she’s taking the time to communicate something over and over, I can at least be courteous enough to listen. She leans out the window.
“You don’t look good in spandex,” she screams. I stare at her, stupefied. And then I recover.
“Thank you so much for the unsolicited fashion advice,” I reply. You poisonous little spider.
This is my neighborhood. I swear half the population has mistaken life for the Jerry Springer show.
But the worst thing is – when I get home, I check myself in the mirror.
I do so look good in Spandex, I tell myself.
