Cotton tales

Whilst on a jaunt to Our Nation's Capital recently, I did something very important. I bought myself new underwear.

Yes, it was Target 15% Off Day, so I loaded up with slinky Bonds undies - and a few pairs of socks for good measure. As always happens, the checked was manned(?) by a boy too young to shave, but who may perhaps be old enough to drive himself to work - being the ACT & all. Now, I can talk body parts & functions over dinner, bring up the awkward all too often, but when it comes to myself, well, the cringing 14 year old in me always wins. A boy! selling me undies! eek! To which the mature voice in my head says - if not get over it, then at least try not to blush.

So I duly handed over my underwear.
He scanned.
I blushed.
He gave them back to me.
The checkout chick next door took the hangers off her customer's undies before putting them in a bag.
I decided to be proactive. I started removing the little individual hangers.
He said - oh, sorry. I normally do that, but you looked like you would use them.

And I spent the rest of the day trying to decide exactly how I project "I use hangers for my underwear."