“Which one of these is maroon?” Why the hell do I always play on maroon sports teams? Is it some kind of crazy masochism or a horrible cosmic joke? I swear, I’ve played on them since elementary school soccer. I love Virginia Tech football. And I’ve never been able to distinguish maroon from green.
“This one is. Wait, why are you asking?”
Because I want to make sure my bionic eye is working right. “Because I’m colorblind.”
“Yeah, but, why is it so important that you have maroon striped socks?” Oh, right. I guess my visibly poor grasp of fashion as a concept, combined with my already established fundamental ineptitude with respect to color matching or management, make that the more important question to be asking.
It’s several months ago. I am in American Apparel in Carytown, which, inside my mind, I like to think of as “Hipster Hooters.” There are two incredibly pretty (and relentlessly trendy looking) girls working there, which seems to happen every time I walk into that store.
I’m there for maroon striped socks, and also because I have a friend (a guy) who works there. The socks are supposed to match the maroon uniform I wear to play a ridiculously elementary-school type sport, which practically begs to be accompanied with striped socks. I also kind of want to say hi to that guy, because he’s cool.
But my biggest problem, once I’m holding a pair of socks in each hand, is identifying maroon. For all I know, I’m holding dark green and normal brown socks in my hands. So I go up to the cutest retail sales clerk I’ve ever seen and ask for a second opinion.
And, you know, in the course of learning about colors as though I were in pre-school, I actually had a very nice, pleasant conversation with this girl. It wasn’t awkward at all, once we got it all straight that I was actually genetically handicapped when it comes to maroon, and not just screwing around. There was no awkwardness that I could detect.
But then I remember: is my friend working today? I ask, but it turns out that he isn’t. Oh well.
So all of a sudden I’m thinking to myself that you just don’t have very nice, pleasant conversations with the cutest retail sales clerk you’ve ever seen every day. No, sir. I have to say something. What do I say? Something, fast! Wait, she knows my friend, right?
“Thanks for helping me. And, hey, you should ask my friend about me sometime. He’ll tell you I’m legitimate.”
Does that even mean anything? Is that English? What am I trying to accomplish? Look, why don’t you ask my friend about me – he’ll verify that I am not a figment of your imagination. The girl laughs and walks away to go be cute and trendy somewhere else. Well, fortunately no one else heard me be ridiculous.
Oh, wait. I forgot about the other cutest retail sales clerk I’ve ever seen. When I turn to the register, C.R.S.C. 2 rolls her eyes and says, “Okay, legitimate guy. I’ll ring you up.”