"Why is that man in pink?"
Abbie and I went to the store recently. To be precise, we went to the Salvation Army Thrift Store, which is basically a large indoor year-round garage sale. The clothes at the store are generally things that their original owners couldn’t unload at their own garage sale* so the stained quotient tends to run higher than typical garage sale merchandise. Nevertheless, I can still find quality, mostly stain-free clothing at sub-garage sale prices, especially since one clothes tag color is always half-price (the price tags are color-coded, I assume so they know how long the merchandise has been hanging on the racks). As a bonus, the cashiers often can’t remember exactly which color is supposed to be half-price, so I occasionally get my entire haul for half-price.**
On this particular trip, I found about a half dozen choice articles, and proceeded to wait in line to purchase. While in line, I heard another customer ask my most dreaded question: “How old is he?”
Think back to an earlier post where I discussed dressing Abbie in clothing emblazoned with Coded Gender Stereotypes. I originally decided against doing so, but after being aggravated by people assuming she was a he, I flip-flopped and adorned her with all manner of pink items. She doesn’t wear pink everyday, but this day she did, and this woman still barreled along assuming she was a boy, kind of like a telemarketer barreling along oblivious to the inherent problem involved in asking people in the middle of the day if they’re tired of their 9 to 5 job. I can understand someone not noticing the pink highlights on her white sandals. I never notice footwear, something my wife can verify. What mystifies me is this woman thought Abbie was male in spite of the pink tank top she wore. When I say the tank top was pink, I don’t mean it was striped with pink and enough other colors to fill a Crayola box, even a preschool oriented Crayola box. I mean this tank top was straight, flat, Strawberry Shortcake caliber pink decorated with deeper pink hearts just in case someone missed the message. The only way her tank top could have said “girl” any clearer would be to literally write “girl” on it.
I know this shouldn’t bother me. These people mean well, and it’s not like they know us, not that I would want to know such dangerously oblivious people. I imagine these are the same people who commit oughta-be-arrestable driving offenses like failure to use turn signals or driving through a light that’s clearly red just because the car in front of you went. It just irks me when I concede principles for naught. I was nice when I replied to her, though, simply making sure to work “she” into my response.
“Oh, she, I’m sorry,” the woman answered. Then she continued with “Hey! This merchandise is used!”
* No exaggeration there. Sometimes I even find garage sale price tags still attached.
** And I promptly drop the mistaken difference into the nearby red kettle. Part of it at least.
On this particular trip, I found about a half dozen choice articles, and proceeded to wait in line to purchase. While in line, I heard another customer ask my most dreaded question: “How old is he?”
Think back to an earlier post where I discussed dressing Abbie in clothing emblazoned with Coded Gender Stereotypes. I originally decided against doing so, but after being aggravated by people assuming she was a he, I flip-flopped and adorned her with all manner of pink items. She doesn’t wear pink everyday, but this day she did, and this woman still barreled along assuming she was a boy, kind of like a telemarketer barreling along oblivious to the inherent problem involved in asking people in the middle of the day if they’re tired of their 9 to 5 job. I can understand someone not noticing the pink highlights on her white sandals. I never notice footwear, something my wife can verify. What mystifies me is this woman thought Abbie was male in spite of the pink tank top she wore. When I say the tank top was pink, I don’t mean it was striped with pink and enough other colors to fill a Crayola box, even a preschool oriented Crayola box. I mean this tank top was straight, flat, Strawberry Shortcake caliber pink decorated with deeper pink hearts just in case someone missed the message. The only way her tank top could have said “girl” any clearer would be to literally write “girl” on it.
I know this shouldn’t bother me. These people mean well, and it’s not like they know us, not that I would want to know such dangerously oblivious people. I imagine these are the same people who commit oughta-be-arrestable driving offenses like failure to use turn signals or driving through a light that’s clearly red just because the car in front of you went. It just irks me when I concede principles for naught. I was nice when I replied to her, though, simply making sure to work “she” into my response.
“Oh, she, I’m sorry,” the woman answered. Then she continued with “Hey! This merchandise is used!”
* No exaggeration there. Sometimes I even find garage sale price tags still attached.
** And I promptly drop the mistaken difference into the nearby red kettle. Part of it at least.
posted by Matt at
10:39 PM
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