Oh, I know the Rules, and believe me, I’d be the first one to cast a disapproving look your way if you wore white pants or white shoes sometime after that first week of September.
But today seemed to call for it. With everything I’ve been through the past two years, it seemed fitting to break a rule today.
Anyway, I’m walking down 6th Avenue on the way to work, and I see a hipster guy coming toward me. The fingers of his left hand were pink with cold (too hip for gloves, I guess) and holding a cigarette, while his right hand clutched the front of his thin vintage blazer just below his scarf that was doubled over and knotted you-know-how. His own shoes were very pointy, and the heels made a loud clack-clack sound as he marched up the street. As he passes me, I see him look down. I was wearing sunglasses and so could look right at him without being detected, and of course he’s looking at my shoes. I can see, as clearly as if there were a cartoon thought balloon over his head, what he’s thinking.
He’s thinking, “Damn, why didn’t I think of that?”