“I feel like you shouldn’t meet a billionaire in a Chuck E. Cheese uniform,
or in a shirt stained pink by your hair, which are my only outfits at the moment.”
Daisy was about my mom’s size, so we decided to raid her closet,
and as we tried to find the least Momish top and jeans combo available, Daisy talked.
She talked a lot. “I’ve got a theory about uniforms. I think they design them so that you become, like, a nonperson,
so that you’re not Daisy Ramirez, a Human Being, but instead a thing that brings people pizza and exchanges their tickets for plastic dinosaurs.
It’s like the uniform is designed to hide me.” “Yeah,” I said.
“Fucking systemic oppression,” Daisy mumbled, and then pulled a hideous purple blouse out of the closet.
“Your mom dresses like a ninth-grade math teacher.” “Well, she is a ninth-grade math teacher.”
“That’s no excuse.” “Maybe a dress?” I held up a calf-length black dress with pink paisleys. Just awful.
“I think I’m gonna roll with the uniform,” she said. “Yeah.”
I heard Mom drive up, and even though she wouldn’t mind us borrowing clothes, I felt a jolt of nervousness.
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