A few months into my freshman year, I decided to conduct some sartorial experiments, hoping against hope I might discover a sense of style. One day I saw a checked bowtie in a store downtown and bought it with the thought of wearing it to school the next day.
There was a only silence during my morning classes, a fact I attributed tothe seething envy of my fellow students, and afterward, I proudly strolled off to the cafeteria for lunch. Checked bowtie, I thought to myself, you are very cool.
A few minutes later, I passed by a table where some friends of mine were sitting. One of them raised his finger and shouted, “Waiter!”
What?! Making fun of my bowtie?! Angrily, I sputtered, “Fuck you, asshole,” at which my nemesis looked genuinely shocked.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“You heard me,” I said, gathering my indignation. “FUCK YOU.” His eyes grew wide.
“I can’t believe you would say that,” he replied, and pounded the table. “That’s it. Let me speak to your manager.”
My bowtie was checked, but that was checkmate. Except with a tux, I have never worn a bowtie again.