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I was at WalMart just now getting some emergency butter when I saw one of the most stereotypical little old ladies you can think of pushing a basket full of groceries around-- five feet tall, probably never stops leaning slightly forward, spherical gray hair with giant artificial curls, a stride about one foot long, the whole thing. She was wearing one of those baseball-style t-shirts, faded, slightly stained and obviously well loved, with bold letters on the front saying WWLD?-- with a smaller caption below. Now, I enjoy irreverence in unexpected places, so I kept looking as we went past each other to see what the L stood for. May I fall down dead if that woman's shirt didn't say What Would Leeroy Do? I whipped around to read the back of it once she passed me, and saw there all the appropriate slogans and quotations. Some cartoon lightning bolts for decoration. You know.
Friends, I almost let her get away. I thought about it. I suddenly felt bad because I realized it isn't cool to act like everything associated with old women is inherently funny. Maybe she was hip. I kept watching her, and soon decided there was no way that was true. I turned around, caught up with her and asked her, "Ma'am?... Where did you get your shirt from?"
It took a few tries ("Your shirt"), but when she got it, her slow and twangy answer surpassed all my hopes:
"Oh! ... I got from my son, he gave it to me-- he used to ride the skateboards, you know? And that's what I guess it is, some skateboarding thing.* He was going through his old stuff and he was gonna throw it out and I said, No, give it to me, I'll wear it! So-... But I don't know where he got it...** He lives in San Anton'... so I guess that's where."
* "Uh-huh."
**She seemed honestly somewhat disappointed that she couldn't be of more help getting me one.
Friends, I almost let her get away. I thought about it. I suddenly felt bad because I realized it isn't cool to act like everything associated with old women is inherently funny. Maybe she was hip. I kept watching her, and soon decided there was no way that was true. I turned around, caught up with her and asked her, "Ma'am?... Where did you get your shirt from?"
It took a few tries ("Your shirt"), but when she got it, her slow and twangy answer surpassed all my hopes:
"Oh! ... I got from my son, he gave it to me-- he used to ride the skateboards, you know? And that's what I guess it is, some skateboarding thing.* He was going through his old stuff and he was gonna throw it out and I said, No, give it to me, I'll wear it! So-... But I don't know where he got it...** He lives in San Anton'... so I guess that's where."
* "Uh-huh."
**She seemed honestly somewhat disappointed that she couldn't be of more help getting me one.