Lazy Saturday

This happens every weekend I'm in town.  And yet I forget, every weekend.  I wake up on Saturday, feeling rested and lazy, relishing in my solace.  I pull on a pair of jeans too hole-y for polite company and an old t-shirt of the same comfort and quality.  Shunning decorum, seeking anomie, I head to the streets to run errands.  I don't want to see a single soul I know, but in case I do, I pull a nice pair of shades with me.  The errand today was finding cheese.  How perfectly yuppie, how apropos of the South End.  So I stroll out in my Saturday best- worn jeans, t-shirt, sunglasses, flip flops, thinking I look the part of a casual Saturday sidewalker.  I am, after all, looking for cheese.  But every weekend, I forget I'm in the South End.  The "casual brunch" crowd is immaculately clad.  It's nary 11am and there's a young woman outside of my building, talking on her blackberry, in three inch heels, skinny black pants, and a dressy "this only looks like I put no effort" top.  Saturday mornings are but an illusion of charm and relaxation.  Why of course.  And there I am, strolling with my log of chevre in hand, once again, feeling pretentious and underdressed at the same time, for the zillionth time.