So there I was living with a British family, and unknowingly sporting around a British bag. I then moved to New York, and landed a job with British Airways. I again was surrounded by many people from the UK. After that job busted out, I thought I escaped the British clutch.
Then last night happened.
I was out with a new friend. We were having a few drinks, being social at a Midtown club. There were two boys sitting next to us. I paid them no attention. After a little while, one of our bench buddies pinches my shirt. He tells me that he liked the golden glitter stripes on my black button down. I thanked him, and started chatting.
He was from London, but didn't have a very interesting story. He was on New York on business (his company buys out smaller companies), and hated the city. After an hour of chatting on and off, he asked who owned the Lonsdale bag sitting on the bench. I claimed it, and then he made a snappy comment. He called that brand "really cheap shit in London."
I didn't really know what to do.
I said, "okay..." not knowing what he expected from me. I didn't even know what the brand was, I just wore it because it was cheap and cute (spoken like a true Tokyoite). I didn't care so much to talk to this man after his comment.
My friend was upset at this Londoner. My friend went on about how rude that comment was and about how I should have made a bitchy comment back. I didn't want to make any bitchy comment back. I didn't feel I had to justify owning a cheap bag. I love that. What do I care what some random boy who buys companies for a living thinks about my bag.
Also let's be honest. Making a bitchy comment back to him would have just lowered me to his standard. I'm not a bitchy gay man like him, and never will be. My bag and I walked away that night with no hard feelings. We fashionably walked across town to the 6 line and boarded the train in style.
Today I worked the night shift. I was going to take my khaki bag to work, but felt I hadn't been sporting around my sexy Lonsdale bag with a hot pink Ayu pin in the corner enough. I packed that bag and headed to work. On my way home that night, I left the restaurant, and started walking to 1st Ave to catch the M15 bus uptown. Somewhere between 3rd Ave and 1st Ave, a random boy yelled something to me. I was crossing the street when I heard his voice. I turned around, and it was a slim white boy whom I had never seen.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I said, where did you get your bag?" He shouted again.
This was weird, I thought. My bag had gotten me into trouble the night before, and now it's stirring up some commotion yet again. What's the deal here?
I started to walk back to his side of the street, so that my shouting voice could morph into a speaking voice. I told him that I got the bag at some thrift shop far out of town. He looked at me and said, "a thrift shop?" He made a pretty strange face, and from the intonation in his voice, I could instantly tell that he was gay. I repeated, "yeah...a thrift shop." He nodded his head and said, "Cool, I really like it."
A tiny smirk sprouted on my face, which quickly turned into a smile. "Thank you," I said, and then turned my back, and headed for the M15.
I don't know what kind of game England is trying to play with me. It gave me an amazing family, then a horrible job. Then it gave me a bitchy comment, followed by an endearing compliment. Whatever game this is, I suppose I'll just play along.
It seems to be giving me lemons, but it also seems to be giving me some delicious strawberries, along with some perfectly timed confidence boosters.
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