I grew up in a small town. So small, we didn’t have pasta—only
macaroni and noodles. No one there had a “lifestyle,” only a life. We had ice
cream, but no one I knew had ever heard of gelato.
And, in that little town, only little boys wore short pants. And
nobody wore a cap backwards unless they were playing catcher in a baseball game
or milking a cow.
That fashion sense—or lack of it—has stuck with me. All my pants
have legs that go all the way down. And all my caps sit on my head facing
forward. The bill, after all, exists to shade your eyes, and it can’t do that
if it’s poking out the back.
None of this makes me in any sense superior, you understand. In
fact, it often makes me something of an oddity. But that’s all right. I wear
what I wear, fashion be damned. And the world is a better place for not having
to look at my knobby knees.
