Dear Diary:
Scene: Sunday, July 28, waiting for tickets to “Love’s Labour’s Lost†at the Delacorte Theater in Central Park.
I was waiting alone, and overheard hours of conversation from the pair ahead of me and the fivesome behind me.
When at noon we stood to form a line, one of the young men behind me (Brooklyn native and soon to be 21 years old, musician, arranger and songwriter, I had heard) approached me (60 years old, out-of-town visitor) and said that he really really liked my shirt, that he had noticed how great I looked in the shirt, that yellow was perfect with my skin tone, and that he and I had similar skin tone.
I thanked him for the compliment, and basked for a brief moment in praise from a hip 20-year-old New Yorker.
Then he continued, “If I saw that shirt in a thrift store, I would totally buy it!â€
My out-of-town sense of style suffered a sudden deflation.
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