I was in Walmart yesterday buying essentials, like mouthwash. The checkout lady was very chatty and as I gathered up my eco-friendly bags, she commented, "You look so nice. You know you dress well. Your colors match." I thanked her and walked out of the store.
As I got in my car, I thought about that. "My colors match." Maybe all that Garanimal orientation paid off after all. Then I came to my senses - of course my colors match you dimwit. I am not known to go out in public with purple polka dots, red stripes, and orange plaid - at the same time. I've never owned orange plaid in my life - that I can remember.
Now, I'll let my pocket book and the color of my shoes slide. I have quiet the collection of pocket books and am insistent on color coordination with my attire in that department. I do not have a pair of shoes to match each of my pocket books like my Aunt Kat, bless her heart, and my late Mother-in-law did.
Was this cashier on fashion patrol? Or, did she think I matched particularly well. Or, horrors, did she think that was the nicest thing she could say about me? Damned by faint praise. That's akin to telling a young man his blind date is very good with her make-up. Or, the safest thing a husband may say when his wife asked if an outfit looks nice, and it is not something he wonders if she has seen herself in the mirror (ie if so, she should not want to be caught dead in it). His response, "Oh, honey, those colors bring out the blue in your eyes." Saved by the old blue eyes routine.
It all goes back to another one of my Daddy's old adages "'Tis better to be silent and thought dumb than to speak and leave no doubt." Why did that cashier feel the need, the urge, why did the spirit move her to have to say anything? I have spent way too many brain cells pondering this compliment (?) of hers. Though, I am not sure it was an encomium or a disparagement of my tastes.
Come to think about it, I should have hung around. The young lady behind me had a NASCAR t-shirt, dirty camouflage pants, and tattoos of barbed wire around her neck. And to complete her look, stringy bleached blond hair teased like a waitress in a John Travolta cowboy bar scene.
I wonder what accolade the cashier granted her? I know I shouldn't be so unappreciative of a stranger offering me unsolicited kind words. After all, the last time I made a fashion statement in Walmart, I had my red cowboy boots on and red necks were taking pictures of them with their phones.