Million Dollar Insult

So yesterday, we went to Singleton's Appliance Resale (you know, used stoves, washers, dryers, the like) in the sketchiest of sketches in Decatur. And if you can't imagine what kind of atmosphere might be like in a place that sells old used kitchen electronics, its that place you could pass on the road every single day of your life and never recall, if asked, what exactly existed in that shoddy little building. Hand painted window lettering, ply-wood panel walls, and a chatty redneck man behind the the counter. Singleton, with white hair, a beer gut, Hulk Hogan tan, and a sparklin' of gold teeth when he told story after story about his years in delivering washer and dryers in Atlanta. His partner in crime, J.R. (or Junior, whichever you prefer to call him) had the most interesting patch of facial hair on his 65 year old face. His salt and pepper mustache seemed to be sprinkled across the entirety of his cheeks and the space between his nose and upper lip. It only ended where his hair line began. Junior was described to us by our first friend as a man "who likes to talk" (pot.kettle.black.)

There was one other fellow in the shop besides the two fish-out-of-water blonde girls, their new friends J.R. and Singleton. This was "the guy cutting the grass out back" --- which struck me as odd only because, upon further inspection, I realized the only thing resembling a patch of grass amongst the sea of gravel was the few weeds desperately fighting their way up through the cracks of asphalt. I looked again at this so-called lawn care man, his baggy jeans, bugged-out eyes, and limping walk to see where exactly he was heading to do his work and what "cutting the grass" could perhaps be code for.

Apparently, the topiary tender was giving me the once over at the same time I was taking him in because upon eye contact he proceeds to ask me,

"Scuse me. You a boxer?"

(silence)

A boxer? A BOXER??!?! A boxer. This man asked me if I, all 5'3(and a half inch) blonde boobness of me, was some sort of fighter. I believe it had something to do with my regrettable attire of workout shorts, sports tank top, and running shoes (maybe the mouthguard might have been off-throwing?) but -- still! I look at him. I glare at him. He stares back at me. I give him a resounding NO, look over at Liz in dispair, and he spits out something under his breath about "well, cuz you look like youz in shape."

Oh no, nononono. the damage had been done.




What I want to do, in looking back on it, is go back and ask this dear landscape architect a few simple questions as to what could possibly have been running through his head besides where to spread the fertilizer.

A) Do I look like a man? A burly snarling man-woman? Do I even have a hint of over-grown muscle going on that I seem to have overlooked, making me more Million Dollar Baby than babe?

B) If I was wearing this outfit (see below)



PLUS




Would this appear most suitable for: Aerobic class instructor? Jogger? or BOXER?? Maybe what it actually was -- a sunny Saturday afternoon rental bike ride through Piedmont Park with my friends?

C) If you saw a young woman who you took, from first glance, to be of the "working-out type" and you wanted to know what she was doing to create her butch-y physique (so maybe your lanky ghetto ass could steal her secrets and earn a little more Decatur street cred) -- do you immediately assume she prefers knocking bitches out over Pilates?

D) Lastly, (and this is more of a statement, than a question) If you are trying to make new friends of the female gender or perhaps open conversation with a stranger in the room, never default to wondering aloud what man-dominated sport she prefers. No disrespect to the small percentage of women that do participate, the smaller of them that are actually reading this (that would be asking for quite the ass-kicking, wouldn't it?) but Laila Ali I am not.

That is all, young man. Now get back to your hedge-trimming before I beat yo' ass.