NotHardUp1
What? Me? Really?
The year is drawing to a close, and my company was acquired last year by one that doesn't accrue vacation, so thereby doesn't retain any at year-end, so use-it-or-lose-it-prevails. A month ago, I submitted a raft of requests for days abutting Thanksgiving and Christmas, with a few Fridays thrown in. All were approved.
Yesterday was one of the Fridays, and I puttered around, starting the day with replacing a drawer runner in a bureau that had a broken one because it had been made of trash wood with knots and cracks in the runner. After an hour of slavish inattention to detail, the deed was done, and I finished the three loads of laundry and decided my reward should be lunch out.
There is a Holiday Inn about five minutes from my workplace that has been promoting its bar and grill for the whole seven years I have lived here. They put coupons in a mailer that has dozens of other things I don't buy and it comes in the mail every quarter or so. One of the reasons I never want to try their buffet is the place is named "Hoppy's" and it uses a frog as a logo, not exactly the stimulant for eating, not this side of France. But, I relented and went anyway, toting my sad little $2 off coupon.
At 11:40, they were not very busy for a Friday, with about 12-15 diners already seated at maybe 6-8 tables. The room held about 80-100 seats, The gathered were notably older people, my age or better, and mostly black folks, although that didn't seem significant at the time, as everyone looked a bit shop worn and mostly attired in working class attire, not from the business park adjacent.
I waited about five minutes before the hostess returned and oddly, they charged you then and there for the meal, but she was pleasant enough, so I optimistically tipped $5 on top of the $16 and made my way to the buffet. It was as advertized, a country foods array, with a decent, if a bit ergonomially challenged salad bar (shoved against a wall, so patrons reached a good three feet under a sneeze hood to reach items on the back side). Typical in modern Southern and Soul Food assorments, it was meat-heavy with fried catfish, meat loaf, shredded pork shoulder, and fried chicken, plus a generous amount of summer sausage in the braised cabbage. Sides were boiled & baked sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green beans, grean beans again with carrots, and blackeyed peas. Flattened yeast rolls and crumbling corn muffins filled a basket at the end of the line. A dessert cabinet displayed a five-story shelving of unappealing cake slices, key-lime pie wedges, and a couple of other institutional thawed things. On the buffet steam table were two pans of cobbler, apple or peach, also institutional, but preferable.
A kind server asked my drink order and when I got to my table, the iced tea was already there, albeit made the day before, as it was so cloudy as to be completely opaque. Butt, it was drinkable even if bad.
The food was good and the place began to fill as noon came and went, but curiously, the guests were about 98% black, which was only notable because it's not representative of the area or the neighborhood, and the cuisine wasn't exceptionally soul food or different that many other meat and three restaurants in the area, nor was it less expensive, so I figured it was maybe just a black owner who had a great following. They were also almost all seniors, so maybe there was some meeting in the hotel, or this was a Friday gathering of some group informally. I enjoyed seeing so many folks enthused and happy and enjoying the fare as I was.
My table was a two-top, in a row of several, yet patrons strangely chose to cut through the row which was very close, instead of continuing down a wider aisle and then going over to the buffet without being so near diners. But, I smiled and nodded as they passed within inches of my table. Then, one lady stopped and asked, "Where did you get that shirt?" Surprised, I smiled and said "At the thrift store about two months ago!"
The shirt was technically a fashion faux pas. It was a nice thick jersey knit rugby pullover, with broad red and white horizontal stripes, and a crest on the left breast, and a white cotton gabardine collar. It appeared unworn when I bought it for something like $3-$5 at the Goodwill. The temps here had not been cold enough to wear it until yesterday, when highs would only hit the 50's, so I was enjoying its snug comfort even if fat people are not supposed to wear broadband.
Some time ago, I told myself, "you look fat in whatever, so wear what you like."
The woman snapped me back from my momentary pleasure at my bargain's debut. "Do you realize that's a sorority?" She pointed at the crest. I paused briefly at her rude tone to consider whether or not to play indignant and retort with directing fingers "HEY! My eyes are up HERE!" Prudence prevailed. With a warm smile and light chuckle, I answered honestly, "No, but I'm OK with that, as I think sororities are fine." She shuffled off with a scowl of disapproval.
As I enjoyed the rest of my meal, I wondered why the woman was so bothered by it. The placket's lapel closed left over right, as a man's shirt should, so was technically a man's shirt. Sure, some individual, or business, had probably made it for a woman, but simply used a man's shirt due to it being oversized and them having few orders from large women for polos. Here's literally the same shirt with a different logo being resold online (if the pic is not "used without permission"):
And here is the link to the maker's site, referring to it as a unisex item (linked without permission): https://www.charlesriverapparel.com/product/9278/Classic-Rugby-Shirt.html
The revelation that I was cross dressing made the rest of the meal infinitely better. As I looked about the room, I saw diners beginning to finish, leaving heaps of wasted food on their plates, while I slowly ate every ort of the things I had placed on mine. Finally, as I finished, an older couple was at the register, paying, and she began glancing my direction. Sure enough, her husband headed for their table but she diverted to walk by me. As she looked me in the eye, before she could speak, I warmly reached out and touched her arm and said, "I know. You're the second one who's told me that it's a sorority, although the other lady was rude about it. I bought it at a thrift store two months ago. I hope it's an honors sorority and academic".
She smled and pleasantly "Well, you have to be invited." I pressed again, "but, it's an honor, isn't it?" She nodded. She still seemed disturbed, and added "We've asked our members not to sell or donate their gear, but maybe someone passed . . ., I'd buy it from you, but you wouldn't have a shirt to wear home." That was comically strange. Who would say such a thing? It was my shirt. It wasn't the insignia of a secret society or Freemasons, or Momon underwear. Good grief.
I took the high road and told her I would have to look for an embroidered patch to cover it. My mind went to a sports patch. She smiled and made her way on to her table. I got my to-go cup for the bad tea, and saw myself out, a pariah and unwelcomed crossdresser in that dark place.
When I got home, I looked up the greek letters and saw that it was indeed a black woman's sorority, charitable, no longer exclusively black, but likely 99% so in practice. Out of respect for the HBCU sorority, I will probably take the shirt to a co-worker and ask her to pass it along to someone in a local chapter. No need in being an ass since it bothers them to see it on a fat white guy.
Yesterday was one of the Fridays, and I puttered around, starting the day with replacing a drawer runner in a bureau that had a broken one because it had been made of trash wood with knots and cracks in the runner. After an hour of slavish inattention to detail, the deed was done, and I finished the three loads of laundry and decided my reward should be lunch out.
There is a Holiday Inn about five minutes from my workplace that has been promoting its bar and grill for the whole seven years I have lived here. They put coupons in a mailer that has dozens of other things I don't buy and it comes in the mail every quarter or so. One of the reasons I never want to try their buffet is the place is named "Hoppy's" and it uses a frog as a logo, not exactly the stimulant for eating, not this side of France. But, I relented and went anyway, toting my sad little $2 off coupon.
At 11:40, they were not very busy for a Friday, with about 12-15 diners already seated at maybe 6-8 tables. The room held about 80-100 seats, The gathered were notably older people, my age or better, and mostly black folks, although that didn't seem significant at the time, as everyone looked a bit shop worn and mostly attired in working class attire, not from the business park adjacent.
I waited about five minutes before the hostess returned and oddly, they charged you then and there for the meal, but she was pleasant enough, so I optimistically tipped $5 on top of the $16 and made my way to the buffet. It was as advertized, a country foods array, with a decent, if a bit ergonomially challenged salad bar (shoved against a wall, so patrons reached a good three feet under a sneeze hood to reach items on the back side). Typical in modern Southern and Soul Food assorments, it was meat-heavy with fried catfish, meat loaf, shredded pork shoulder, and fried chicken, plus a generous amount of summer sausage in the braised cabbage. Sides were boiled & baked sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green beans, grean beans again with carrots, and blackeyed peas. Flattened yeast rolls and crumbling corn muffins filled a basket at the end of the line. A dessert cabinet displayed a five-story shelving of unappealing cake slices, key-lime pie wedges, and a couple of other institutional thawed things. On the buffet steam table were two pans of cobbler, apple or peach, also institutional, but preferable.
A kind server asked my drink order and when I got to my table, the iced tea was already there, albeit made the day before, as it was so cloudy as to be completely opaque. Butt, it was drinkable even if bad.
The food was good and the place began to fill as noon came and went, but curiously, the guests were about 98% black, which was only notable because it's not representative of the area or the neighborhood, and the cuisine wasn't exceptionally soul food or different that many other meat and three restaurants in the area, nor was it less expensive, so I figured it was maybe just a black owner who had a great following. They were also almost all seniors, so maybe there was some meeting in the hotel, or this was a Friday gathering of some group informally. I enjoyed seeing so many folks enthused and happy and enjoying the fare as I was.
My table was a two-top, in a row of several, yet patrons strangely chose to cut through the row which was very close, instead of continuing down a wider aisle and then going over to the buffet without being so near diners. But, I smiled and nodded as they passed within inches of my table. Then, one lady stopped and asked, "Where did you get that shirt?" Surprised, I smiled and said "At the thrift store about two months ago!"
The shirt was technically a fashion faux pas. It was a nice thick jersey knit rugby pullover, with broad red and white horizontal stripes, and a crest on the left breast, and a white cotton gabardine collar. It appeared unworn when I bought it for something like $3-$5 at the Goodwill. The temps here had not been cold enough to wear it until yesterday, when highs would only hit the 50's, so I was enjoying its snug comfort even if fat people are not supposed to wear broadband.
Some time ago, I told myself, "you look fat in whatever, so wear what you like."The woman snapped me back from my momentary pleasure at my bargain's debut. "Do you realize that's a sorority?" She pointed at the crest. I paused briefly at her rude tone to consider whether or not to play indignant and retort with directing fingers "HEY! My eyes are up HERE!" Prudence prevailed. With a warm smile and light chuckle, I answered honestly, "No, but I'm OK with that, as I think sororities are fine." She shuffled off with a scowl of disapproval.
As I enjoyed the rest of my meal, I wondered why the woman was so bothered by it. The placket's lapel closed left over right, as a man's shirt should, so was technically a man's shirt. Sure, some individual, or business, had probably made it for a woman, but simply used a man's shirt due to it being oversized and them having few orders from large women for polos. Here's literally the same shirt with a different logo being resold online (if the pic is not "used without permission"):
And here is the link to the maker's site, referring to it as a unisex item (linked without permission): https://www.charlesriverapparel.com/product/9278/Classic-Rugby-Shirt.html
The revelation that I was cross dressing made the rest of the meal infinitely better. As I looked about the room, I saw diners beginning to finish, leaving heaps of wasted food on their plates, while I slowly ate every ort of the things I had placed on mine. Finally, as I finished, an older couple was at the register, paying, and she began glancing my direction. Sure enough, her husband headed for their table but she diverted to walk by me. As she looked me in the eye, before she could speak, I warmly reached out and touched her arm and said, "I know. You're the second one who's told me that it's a sorority, although the other lady was rude about it. I bought it at a thrift store two months ago. I hope it's an honors sorority and academic".
She smled and pleasantly "Well, you have to be invited." I pressed again, "but, it's an honor, isn't it?" She nodded. She still seemed disturbed, and added "We've asked our members not to sell or donate their gear, but maybe someone passed . . ., I'd buy it from you, but you wouldn't have a shirt to wear home." That was comically strange. Who would say such a thing? It was my shirt. It wasn't the insignia of a secret society or Freemasons, or Momon underwear. Good grief.
I took the high road and told her I would have to look for an embroidered patch to cover it. My mind went to a sports patch. She smiled and made her way on to her table. I got my to-go cup for the bad tea, and saw myself out, a pariah and unwelcomed crossdresser in that dark place.
When I got home, I looked up the greek letters and saw that it was indeed a black woman's sorority, charitable, no longer exclusively black, but likely 99% so in practice. Out of respect for the HBCU sorority, I will probably take the shirt to a co-worker and ask her to pass it along to someone in a local chapter. No need in being an ass since it bothers them to see it on a fat white guy.
