This morning on the UBahn some random Americans heard me talking to my kid, announced that they are from “near Milwaukee Wisconsin,” then tried to engage us in conversation. Upon hearing that we live in England on purposethey looked baffled; when we indicated our trip to Germany was neither work nor pleasure but rather just the way we roll, they looked offended.
Then the woman accused me (literally – she looked perturbed, and said it in an insulted voice) of being “well dressed.”
Huh? Me? For the purposes of this fact finding mission I am attired in a £8 black skirt from H&M, a £6 black turtleneck from Uniqlo, and a ratty old (and basic) black coat. Yeah, I’m carrying a Comme des Garcons bag, but it is made of PVC and thus cheap, as far as designer kit goes. My uniform is not ambitious, or in any way remarkable. In fact, by European standards, I am defiantly downmarket.
Of course my son is quite elegant, towering over me in his suits, but he has dressed like that since infancy. We have not been converted by this life… we have just drifted toward appropriate mooring.
I stared at the strangers, in their matching brightly colored fleece, and they stared back: an impasse.
After they departed with salutations of fake cheer I was curious: aside from the normative rules of mall fashion, what else has my son missed?
A quick pop qiz revealed he does not know what Costco, Circle K, or Plaid Pantry are. He has never heard of chew (Big League or otherwise). He cannot name Slurpee flavors.
He has no clue what “junior high” means, whether on a conceptual or practical level.
I have failed him.