Five Yards for Fashion Faux Paus

It’s casual Friday, so I’m wearing my referee shirt at work today. Truthfully, every day is casual day at work, so that just means I have to go out of my way to look extra trashy on Friday, hence the referee attire. Black and white stripes have a bad rap due to their associations. If you wear them vertically, you’re an umpire, and if you wear them horizontally, you’re a prisoner. What if I wore them diagonally? You wouldn’t be able to tell whether I was making or breaking the rules.

In my first encounter, someone jokingly asked, “Are you gonna leave early today to officiate?” I panicked and froze; “Yes,” was all I could think to say. “Oh,” he said and walked away. Apparently he really thought I was a ref, which seems ludicrous until I remember that I’m judgmental and have poor eyesight.

The next awkward moment came when someone looked me up and down and asked, “Footlocker?” I nodded, bored. “You’re… you’re special,” she offered as she patted me on the shoulder and walked away. Great, why not just call me retarded; I knew that’s what she was thinking.

That guy I hate saw me and yelled, “FOUL!” I gave him a blank stare, because that’s how you should treat people who are socially stunted. He felt compelled to add, “You know, because of your shirt.” Ah, yes. Thanks, dipshit.

When the mail guy asked if I ref, I said no, and he went into a nine minute story about how umpiring for youth hockey is the most rewarding experience of his life. If I actually had a whistle around my neck, I would have pretended to choke on it to get out of the conversation. Nine minutes! Come on, you only get five minutes in the penalty box for fighting! When he finally stopped rambling he said, “So I guess you’re just wearing that ‘cause you think it’s cool or something?”

Most recently, this woman who I swear comes to work via broom and always has some kind of lecture for someone, said, “Are you twelve? You wear that and I think you’re twelve. Usually, I assume thirteen.”

What’s black and white and red all over? Me, after I murder the bitch. Have no fear, I’ll rule it “incidental contact.”