Yesterday I wandered into my local TD branch to get an update on a botched money wire to my son in Japan. The young bank manager, Marco, spotted me and knew immediately why I was there—this money transfer had made us familiar with each other over the past couple of weeks.
It was all I could do not to gasp when I saw Marco. He was sporting a shirt of the most brilliant shade of turquoise I’d ever seen. No rolled shirt sleeves for Marco; his shirt was done up professionally tight, and offset with a beautiful multicoloured tie.
My female gut instinct tells me that Marco is neither homo- nor metrosexual. He is a large, powerful-looking Italian man who probably has to shave three times a day if he wants to appear clean-shaven.
Never in my life has an item of men’s clothing hit me with the force of Marco’s blue shirt. I was able to discuss the details of the money transfer with him casually, but as I was leaving the bank, I couldn’t resist blurting out, “By the way, your shirt is dazzling—I bet you’re going to get tons of comments today!”
All the female bank tellers giggled. Marco graciously accepted my compliment, concluding his excellent bank manager’s service.
As I walked out into the crisp air of the October morning, I was laughing to myself at how we had all been “pumped up” by Marco’s daring attire. And though fall’s brightest colours surrounded me—the golden sky, the glorious hues of changing leaves, the flawless blue sky—none of them could compete with the blue of Marco’s shirt.