Saturday, July 27, 2013 | 2 a.m.
I am the butt of a running joke among my relatives and friends. They say I will buy anything with a hood.
They are correct. I own hooded sweatshirts, T-shirts, jackets, robes, blouses, dresses and a worn-out, ratty beach cover-up. And although I’d never heard the term before letter writer R.J. Palyo used it in the letter to the editor “Gangster culture leads to violence,” I am a “hooded person.”
I live in a middle-class, gated community and, from time to time, I walk to and from our neighborhood pool to lay out, read books of questionable quality and work on maintaining those nice, crisp facial crevices so popular among women of a certain age.
Out of respect to the aesthetic sensibilities of my neighbors (and my own justified sense of body shame), I wear a hooded beach cover-up. I also carry a black beach bag, but I suppose it might be construed as a some sort of burglar booty bag. In the interest of full disclosure, I sometimes sip a bottle of iced tea as I amble along. I readily admit I am a fashion atrocity, and could even possibly appear suspiciously out of place in beautiful, youthful Las Vegas.
My question to Palyo is: Am I in danger of being followed?