As a little girl my life had been blissfully unaware of the world around me. I would spend my days romping our woods with Eldon, and playing dolls with Diane, climbing trees and blowing bubbles. Life was easy, life was good, and life was very much fun-filled.
Every Thursday my Dad and Mom would dress us all up and to town we would go. I can still remember the exhilarating feeling of clinging on for dear life to the front of the shopping cart when Dad would go running down the parking lot after we were done shopping. Anyways, to get back on track here, I used to love looking at all the shoppers around me and imagine what their lives were like, besides, nothing beat trying to guess why a woman would wear a pair of orange pants with a red shirt. My mind would wonder and I would sink into the blissful dreams of painting other people's lives. That is until out of the corner of my eyes I saw a man standing in the corner of an aisle talking on the phone, wearing a dirty t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts.
Oh the horrors! I hadn't even known leg hair existed until that man came along. Long after my eyeballs were wounded and my brain cells scarred, the vision of his hairy legs haunted my dreams. Ever since that unfortunate happening I have not been able to see any khakis without shuddering at the memory. To me, a khaki free world would be just peachy!