My New Blouse
I’ll keep this story short, as I really don’t need to relive it.
A couple months ago I picked up a very thin, peach-colored, French Connection cotton blouse at Loehmann’s. I figured it had ended up at a discount store because the batch had been sized wrong; even the smallest sizes seemed huge. Still, I figured it would go well with my olive-green linen blend Brooklyn Industries jacket, so for about $25 I figured what the hell and took it home.
It turns out, I could.
The Bad Good Samaritan
There I was feeling pretty cute if I say so myself until I got on the subway, found a good standing place, settled my Trader Joe’s bags between my ankles, and a woman offered me her seat.
You already know where this is going, don’t you? I said with as much of a smile as I could muster: “You know, I’m not pregnant.” Then, feeling sorry for her I added, “This shirt is just cut big.”
She blushed and stammered: “Yeah, it’s totally the shirt. Very big. The shirt.”
At which point a slightly wounded, vindictive voice inside my head urged me on, and I added: “Although, whenever someone offers me a seat it’s either because I look pregnant or I look old, and neither is very good.”
I spent the rest of the trip adjusting my cross-body bag to flatten my shirt and show how not pregnant I looked. She spent the ride staring at a game on her phone as though this was the movie Speed and the lives of our fellow passengers depended on her ability to make purple diamonds disintegrate on the screen.
That Shirt Does not Belong in Your Wardrobe
Later I told Nurse V about it. First of all, she agreed that you never offer your seat to a woman who seems to be pregnant unless it’s undeniable that she is expecting— meaning, she should pretty much be going into labor on the train. Then you can offer her your seat. Otherwise, you just run the risk of ruining the day of some aging single chick by essentially telling her she’s so fat she looks like she’s carrying a whole other human being around inside her.
As for the blouse, Nurse V had some practical advice. “Burn that mother f*&$er.”
“Yeah. I could do that. Or buy a belt. Maybe with a belt it would….”
“Burn. That. Mother. F&*@er.”
She makes a good point.