Thursday, July 17, 2003
Over My Shoulder
I wisely skipped the Y today, since last night I unwisely didn't skip the local till closing. When I turned up at work this morning, after missing the usual gym 'n' swim, I attracted puzzled looks from a colleague trying to figure out what was different about me.
Turned out she wasn't used to seeing me with the particular bag I'd slung over my shoulder. Normally, she catches me stomping manfully into the office, weighed down by a butcher-than-thou gym bag, that's bulging with sweaty trainers and towel stinky with testosterone.
This time, however, I was carrying a slightly camp canvas little number, the ideal size and shape for my note-pad and pen, tester of Chanel, Madonna CD, and this month's Vanity Fair, or some similar silliness. It's the kind of bag which makes you, well, swish much more than you normally would.
Sadly all her illusions have now been shattered, for apparently she always had me down as a "well, you know, a backpack sort of guy". I'm not too sure I want to know what one of those is, but I think she meant it as a compliment.