I had a peculiar argument with a man in Paris, in French, prior to purchasing a striped sweater and some underwear that should fit just fine. They appear to be supportive, but not too tight. They will give me the confidence I need to be my best.
But back to the commotion.
He insisted that Rudolph (of the red nose) was not gay. I said that I never said he was. The man disapproved of me, and as I took his measure, it seemed plausible that I would never hold him in high regard, in any language.
And then began the true lunacy.
It quickly became apparent that I was the only one in the conversation who knew who Rudolph was. As this unseemly business proceeded into the red madness of the setting sun, even though the lights were coming on all about the city, I felt that somehow I’d lost my way.
And just so you know that the tale be true, behold the French undies: