So this morning I wake up, make tea in a Pyrex measuring cup (because I am out of coffee and don’t have a teapot), shower, get dressed, and put on the makeup that’s really no longer “optional” if I don’t sit in a darkened room all day. Then I walk outside and greet the chickens who are hoping something went past its expiration date in the refrigerator last night – sorry, girls. I get in the car and turn on my NPR… Uh, oh. “11 miles until empty.” I’d better fill up.
I stop at the gas station and fill up the tank, smiling at the nice group of Latino gentlemen in cowboy hats who are filling up their battle-worn old Ford pick-up. “I wonder how seven of them ride in that truck? Especially with those weed-whackers and that big tractor tire in the back.” I muse to myself as I put the nozzle back in its slot and get back in the car. They really seemed interested in my little car. Maybe they were wondering how many of them would fit in it.
I turn right out of the driveway of the gas station toward the highway and… BLARGH! I still haven’t gotten any coffee! One quick U-turn and I’m on my way to Starbucks, but when I get there I see a line of cars reminiscent of a soviet bread line! It doesn’t look too busy inside so I park, go in, get my quad-tall-breve-latte and a pastry, trying not to let the way-too-young-for-me-but-devilishly-cute barista boy catch me checking him out. (He did have a rakish “I’m too sexy to shave” stubble going this morning. Oh, my!) I see one of the dads from the little league team behind me in line as I’m leaving and say a quick “Hello, how are you?” as I gather up my morning treats and head out the door. He had a pleasant, happy smile on his face as I left; he must love Starbucks as much as I do.
Then I’m on the highway on the way to my day-job. A quick twenty-seven minutes later I am in the parking lot, miraculously remember to get the eggs I brought to work out of the back of the car, grab my bag, and my laptop, my coffee, my pastry, try to put my badge on my hip but end up tucking it into my back pocket, and walk across the parking lot to the door, saying “Good morning,” to various folks along the way. I give a cheerful, “Thank you,” as someone is kind enough to open the door for me as I struggle with my load. I greet the security guards as I walk through the door and down the hallway to my office, feeling pretty proud of myself for not dropping anything. Everyone seems so pleasant and smiley today.
And when I get to my desk and reach into my back pocket to remove my badge and attach it properly, I realize, with absolute blood chilling horror, that there is a rip in my pants the size of the Grand Canyon. (This is not to say that my ass is vast and majestic. It’s really not. Seriously.)
Here’s a picture of what I wish my ass looked like this morning:
I then have the following text message conversation with my sweetheart:
- Me: “OMG. I have a huge rip right in the butt of my pants.”
- Sweetheart: “Oops. Do you need my help?”
At this point I briefly entertain the notion of suggesting that he “Come quick and bring duct tape.” Or saying, “Yes, I need you to follow me around right behind me all day and growl at anyone who looks at my butt.” But, I think better of those ideas.
- Me: “No. I had a sweatshirt in the car that I tied around my waist. At least I’m wearing nice panties.”