Underwear at the coffee shop

If I'm fixing my hair in the bathroom at 5 a.m. in my panties and bra, I have on more clothes than the woman I saw in the coffee shop this morning. More square inches, more coverage.

It was coolish this morning--I was wearing a jacket--and because of the AC, the interior of Caribou was even cooler. She came in wearing a clingy cotton knit shirt with straps, that stopped above her waist. It sort of looked like what we used to call a "training bra" for girls who had nothing yet to train. She was wearing red satin, athletic boxer style short shorts, with the running stripe on the side, with the waistband rolled down, so you could see the pink elastic of her thong, which I think was her "real" underwear. And black slippers. She left carrying two large ice teas and two lattes. She looked too old to be a refugee from a junior high slumber party sent out to find food--maybe 25-30. Noticeable goosebumps. I immediately sketched her. But you wouldn't believe it if I showed you. She's an example of why the Muslims think we have a decadent culture--and I'll give 'em that one.