Not Not American

I’m currently in the US and I went out to dinner with my father last night. As I looked around the restaurant, it became official. I am no longer an American.

I was shocked at how slovenly people were dressed. Men in baseball caps. Women in running shoes. Everyone had on jeans. More tee shirts advertising bars, sports teams and car washes than I could count. There was a couple in sweatpants. I was overdressed.

I’d felt the same way the previous evening, when a friend of mine had gone to get a drink at a bar. In my dark jeans, heeled boots and blouse, I was incredibly over dressed. The guy sitting next to us had on a windbreaker. The “businessmen” behind us were all wearing tee shirts advertising various local businesses. I counted two pairs of sweatpants.


My hatred of American “fashion” however doesn’t make me fit in across the pond. I will wear sweatpants to the grocery store. I’ve worn a hoodie to the farmers’ market. I’ve walked my dog in pajamas.

And nearly every time I commit one of these comfortable fashion atrocities I’m reminded of just how American I am.

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