IN THE THRIFT STORE

I need to vent. Not rant. Just vent a little…

Hmmmm a dude/buddy complimented me on a selfie of new T-shirt. A simple top. He said, “hey that’s sexy.” I was clueless as I tried it on; it fit comfortably ‘n didn’t look like a yucky granny-top. Since I haven’t lost the ten pounds as I planned, my try on sessions weren’t real fun… I hate shopping anyway but with breast reconstruction done, my shirts suddenly became too small and those that didn’t had gotten raggedy.
I asked, “what, the dog? Rocky says HI” I posed with my Lab, to brag on my dog. Nice ‘n colorful shirt and my smiling mutt. click. send. I guess maybe I’m still unaccustomed to buying new clothes for my new bosom after breast reconstruction. Now if (being a lil’ sexy) is​ why two ladies (older than me) looked me up & down the other day, I haven’t any idea whatever to say– else I’d be just as presumptive and rude.
​In the thrift store, I was in line to buy two shirts with 1/2 off tickets and first one woman glanced at me, jabbed her sister on the arm and whispered in her ear; they then looked directly at me, quickly tilting their skinny heads away, like two gossipy ol’ hens not even trying to be discreet. I felt really weirded out to be DISSED (?) by old ladies…  so RUDE. In a thrift store?? There I stood, stuck in the judgement line, or maybe one sister admired my shoes. (Now, was it rude of me to overhear their chatter with the clerk that they were twins?)
It’s like, maybe I don’t dress like you or have lots of money or be skinny as you or you think tennis shoes with hot pink ties are funky cool are my glasses crooked? What they don’t know is I just got through four years of breast cancer, but maybe they had too!!!??? Sometimes, people are just plain MEAN. Or sometimes I still feel self-conscious, same as that skinny, buck-toothed fifth grader.
I’ve always gotten that from women and I just don’t get it. At least men don’t criticize other men like women do. They mind their own damn biz.
So as an adult, I still need an occasional compliment. Dammit. Then just when I struggle to regain my composure from snobby strangers, my husband put his muscly arm around my shoulder and snuggles me, “they’re just jealous of my wifey”, handing me two whirligigs he got for my garden. No point to argue.
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