Sometimes its subtle. The glances when we walked into the Walgreens. The heads that turn at our accent. Or lack thereof.
Today, it was the stares when we walked in the local Mexican restaurant. All heads turning. The looks that say "You're wearin' your Sunday best . . . but it's Thursday."
At O'Charley's, it was a little more direct. Adam, our server, walked up to us, a toothpick in his mouth. Asked for our drink orders. After ordering a Grey Goose on the rocks, dirty, with olives, an Octoberfest on tap, a lemonade, and a Corona, he drawled,
"Y'all aren't from here, are you?"
What gave it away? My skirt and heels? The fact that the guys were wearing something other than jeans? The fact that you can hear the difference between "pen" and "pin" when I speak?
Apparently, the locals don't order liquor, or beers beyond Miller, Bud, or Bud Light.
Who knew?
Tomorrow I won't have to feel like an outsider.
Respectfully submitted,
The Wife
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