I don’t understand why my wardrobe choice of today drew so much attention. As usual it was no more than a t-shirt and jeans, my typical hospital clothes. Okay, my typical all the time clothes.
It was my t-shirt that got so much attention. I don’t know why. I’ve worn it before at the hospital, and plenty of places. It’s nothing spectacular. Just a regular old band t-shirt.
The first person to take notice was the respiratory therapist, at six a.m. He said he liked the shirt and I said thanks. He then asked if I made the shirt, to which I replied no and explained Queen is a band, and he said he’d never heard of them. Okay, so, he’s younger than I am, and probably has different taste in music. Maybe he’s been on Mars for forty years. I don’t know.
Later after lunch I went to the front desk to order my dinner tray. An elderly volunteer working there remarks on the shirt.
Her: “Oh I just love that shirt. It’s so pretty.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Her: “That design is just beautiful.”
Me: “Yes.” Thinking Freddie would be pleased.
Her: “It looks like it’s right out of London. So majestic.”
Me: “They are British, a British rock band.”
Her: “A rock band?”
Me: “Yes a Seventies rock band.”
Her: “The Seventies?” Okay, she is rather elderly. Probably spent more time listening to Pat Boone than rock and roll in the Seventies.
Me: “Well, the Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties. They put out music over that time.”
Her: “How did you keep it looking so new? It looks so new.”
Me: “. . . Um . . . it is new. Well, fairly new. A few months old.”
Her: “Oh.” Cue Edith Bunker impression. “Ohhhh.”
The first guy didn’t know Queen, and the elderly lady probably listened to Pat Boone while Queen was combining pseudo-opera and rock and she somehow thinks I kept a shirt looking new for longer than I’ve been alive, but at least the next person knew the band.
She was another respiratory therapist who is a little (lot) older than I am. Which she stated after she asked when I’d seen Queen, and I told her that I never did but wish I had and that I was only twelve when Freddie Mercury passed away. “Oh then you’re A LOT younger than me, then.” Then she asked, “Who gave you the shirt.” I hesitated, confused. “I bought it,” I said. “Oh, that’s good,” she replied. I supposed last time she bought a band t-shirt you had to actually be at the concert. I dunno. It’s called a catalogue people. But she said she thought the world lost a huge talent when Freddie died, and ain’t nobody can argue with that! Or at least I won’t. Of course the same lady asked where I’d found an app I have on the iPad for Doodles. “I went to the App Store . . . and searched for it,” I said. Did I mention she was a little (lot) older than me? Anyway, she’s OK in my book.
Since tonight is my night off from PICU duty, and the hubs is at the hospital, I’m staying at my mom’s apartment. She lives much closer than we do. As I was walking to her building, I passed a couple on a bench. We all greeted each other like good polite Southerners, then as I walked away, one of the two says, “I like that shirt.” I thank her over my shoulder and walk on wondering what the hell is so special about my shirt today.
I’m by no means a fashionista. I mean, I only wear clothes because it’s the law. All right. I’m kidding. Nobody wants to see this fat bottomed girl letting it all hang out. Smirk.