Whatever

The Sam Walton's gift to the world in my town employs a shopping cart handler, who reminds me of my late Uncle Walt. For this reason, I call ours- Walt-Mart. Every time I shop there, I vow I will never do it again. But the prices are low, blah, blah, blah... I should not be this ungrateful, I know. Thank you Mr. Walton.

Fashionista thought she saw a swimsuit top to die for at Walt-Mart, so she drove us over there to scout for it. Soon she will have her license and I will not have to travel white knuckled with a death grip on the shoulder strap of the seat belt and leaning sharply toward the center console in the passenger's seat beside her. The parking part is my favorite. I'm always relieved to exit the cab and air out my pits, while I spit powdered enamel from teeth clenched so tightly, grinding is unnecessary. My molars recede with each practice drive.

After thanking Walt, but we did not need a cart today, I sulked after Fashionista toward the swimwear section. Suddenly, I sensed, out of the corner of my astigmatic right eye, a stalker at 4 o'clock behind me. I say stalker, because an internal alarm rang furiously, indicating an invasion of my personal space. And my palms were feeling clammy. Trying to give benefit of the doubt, I tested my hypothesis. When I moved slightly right, the space invader moved slightly right. A 90 degree turn to the left and the move was imitated again. Sweat beaded up on my lip.

Then, as if nothing had happened, the following figure nonchalantly stepped around me to within three inches of my nose and exclaimed,

"I like your shirt."

It took me a couple seconds to recompose. Then I remembered the words on my back.

"Uh, oh that, oh, right, right, thanks," I managed a squeak of gratitude to the up close in person woman.

The front of this t-shirt says "Whatever", a word forbidden by I.T.-ologist, because whenever our kids said whatever, it always really meant "I don't care" or "I'm not listening" or "go fly a kite" or any number of disrespectful comments they wished they could say instead. By wearing this shirt I can reclaim a perfectly good word corrupted by the current culture and proclaim the Good Word in the process.

The Whatever shirt is a particularly good choice when swimsuit shopping. It lends positive perspective to a hopeless situation. As always, we did not find the killer swimsuit top. Now we are forced to visit the maul mall, where we will have another big old bawl, when for the umpteenth time we'll be reminded that a noninvasive bathing suit top (or bottom) simply does not exist- anymore.

I'll take whatever she's wearing (below). It's from about 1900. Perfect for a day at the beach in Michigan.

Heidi