In Which I Can’t Just Go Along with Nice, Normal Small Talk

So I was at the drugstore with my hair in a bun buying blister band-aids, athletic tape, and toe pads.

Cashier: Are you a ballet dancer?

Me: No, why do you ask?

Cashier: Oh . . . well I just thought because you had . . .

Me: These shoes are just way less comfortable than they look. (I’m wearing fuzzy boots.)

Cashier: Really? That’s funny because–wait you’re smiling. Does that mean that was sarcasm?

Me: (*Nodding*) No.

In my defense, the store was empty and this led to a multi-minute conversation with the cashier about her niece who does dance competitions, so its not like I was just mercilessly trolling busy employees . . .


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