Shock! Horror! Young Geoffrey Goes Shopping
And says he enjoyed himself
Laura and I have been involved for something like 9 months now and continues to amaze me, in large ways and small. (As a fer'instance, neither of us is particularly concerned about the fact we're not sure of the exact date we met - though we could look it up, of course.)
By no means a stereotypical "shopping girl", Laura nevertheless enjoys picking up a piece of clothing now and then. What's wonderful (to me) is that she has never thought that I would enjoy the process, and so has spared me the ordeal of accompanying her on one of her infrequent expeditions.
Still, and despite her preference that I be hirsute and not lost that nagging 15 or 20 pounds (I acquiesce more or less happily to not shaving or cutting my hair, but she'll have to put up with my sveltness should I succeed at the latter), both of us noticed that my wardrobe had become - shall we put it politely, Gentle Readers? - well, somewhat threadbare. Most of my pants' cuffs are ragged and frayed, my favourite purple shirt has developed a hole on the right elbow and others have recently been tossed as altogether indecent in the recent past.
To make a long story short, following drinks with some of my co-workers on Friday evening (during which she barely groped me at all - thank you, sweetie), and a subsequent night of lust, laughter and Chinese food later on, we found ourselves Saturday afternoon taking a long walk in the unseasonable warmth to the charming environs of Bloor and Landsdowne and that neighbourhood's Value Village.
Gentle Readers, it was likely the most pleasant shopping experience of my life. I came away with several "new" pairs of pants and a few shirts and no rise whatsoever in my adreneline level. We strolled the aisles, mocked one another's taste and only occasionally offended our fellow customers with over public displays of affection.
Following which, we found a not-too-dismal coffee-shot and had a quiet snack before she made her way to the wilds of (former) subburbia, while I - too impatient to wait for a bus - walked back home to Queen and Roncesvalles, thinking many thoughts of the warm and fuzzy variety.
In Other News ...
I've removed a few people from my friends' list over the past couple of weeks - no big deal, I thought; their journals simply didn't interest me (for reasons unique to each one) and, once I realized I was simply skipping over them on a regular basis, I decided to take them off.
What I found strange was that, in each of the recent cases, I saw that they had removed my journal from their lists, literally within a few minutes. Leaving aside the geeky rapidity with which that happened (pot, kettle, and all that), I find myself somewhat baffled.
If these people didn't find my journal of interest, why didn't they remove me from theirs some time ago? If they did find my journal of interest, why not just keep reading it? After all, it's not as if the guy in San Francisco and I enjoyed a personal relationship and were constantly stopping into one anothers' apartment for tea.
In a similar vein, about a month back, someone asked me to remove them from my list (and, shortly thereafter, removed me from theirs). I was tempted to keep reading out of spite - "If you don't want strangers reading your words, my your fucking journal friends-only; it's not that hard!" - but good manners and a lack of interest in pointless battles prevented me from doing so.
I don't know, I just find it a strange example of, presumably, insecure egos in action.
As a general question, Gentle Readers, if we are mutual friends and I decide I no longer want us to be such, would you prefer that I sent you a detailed comment as to my reasons, or that I just take you off without a word?
And with that, I think I'll call it a day. I have emails to answer.