It was too precious not to tell.
My oldest daughter and I went for a grocery outing/Hobby Lobby stop yesterday. It’s always so fun for the two of us to get out and chat together.
As we were headed across the parking lot, a gentleman was walking in our direction. (I feel that his race is important to note–he was black–because of the warm, jovial, southern tone in which he spoke that a typical white man doesn’t normally use…it was simply endearing.) He literally stopped in his tracks, looked at us and said,
“Well, praise the Lord, look how nice you look! Are you sisters? (Yessssss!)”
“No, we’re mother and daughter.”
“Look at those smiles! You look so nice…it’s so wonderful! It’s just wonderful! God bless y’all!”
It really made me think more about my dress and how much our outward appearance speaks (or should?) about us. We can’t get it backward though–”white washed exteriors with dead men’s bones within”. But don’t we “speak” with our outward appearance?
Was it the refreshment of simple feminity displayed? (I’m not pretending to be “all femininity”; I don’t always wear skirts and dresses, but more often than not.)
I don’t know. I do know that once there were clear and obvious distinctions, that women gloried in their femininity, and that even the most feminine-loving of us have grown up in a culture where it doesn’t seem to matter much and we struggle ourselves over appropriate dress. Lines have definintely been blurred and the blurring defended so vehemently that even talking about dress gets people all bent out of shape.
Still, it was an interesting experience that made me think.