I'm A Liar By Nature, An Asshole By Trade, And A Professor By Design.

There they were, clad in forest green flannel shirts and black skinny jeans.
They're too _____ to pretend that they dress alike by accident.
Too Young: Not like my parents, who, when standing in the kitchen, found themselves faced with the sudden realization that they were wearing matching outfits.
Too Superficial: Not like you two, who, when standing in a different kitchen, found yourselves doing the same.
("It's only because he picked out my shirt!" A likely story. Embrace your status as soul mates and we'll both forget it ever happened.)

There they were, slim-hipped hipster douchebags, in all of their matchy-matchy finery.
Birds of a highly ironic feather, poring over the extensive condom selection in Duane Reade.
It only took a moment for me to register my disgust.
But it took less than a moment to register my disgust at my disgust.
Why do I care? I thought.
Who am I to be disdainful? I thought.
When did I turn into such an asshole? I thought.
Is it because I, a self-proclaimed NOTAHIPSTER, don't have much reason to find myself in the condom aisle these days (and not just because, A. I have an unopened box in my underwear drawer, and B. When you're a woman sleeping with a woman, you don't need a condom!), and maybe, just maybe, I'm bitter?

And now I remember the instant that I laughed at them.
And it wasn't when I first caught sight of the identical getups.
And it wasn't when they started cooing over the condoms.
It was when they held hands.
And smiled.
And looked genuinely happy.

If you think I'm charming, I guess I've done something right.
(And by "right," I must mean "clever.")
But I don't deserve affection from any of you.
So please, let me tend to my work.
I've got a stable, and it's filled with high horses.
When my shift's over, I'll come back for you, if you'll have me.
But for now, all I really need is a shovel.