I was almost out the door, headed off to work, around 7 o’clock yesterday morning. Almost. Seconds before my exit, a family emergency stopped me in my tracks. It quickly became clear that I had to stick around the house for another three, maybe four, hours.
I called in to work to let them know I wouldn’t be able to make it in until the afternoon. Then I changed from my work-appropriate outfit of button-down shirt and dress pants into a home-appropriate ensemble of an old Rush t-shirt and running shorts.
Around 11:30, the crisis had passed, and I was able to go downtown. I changed back into my work-appropriate outfit, jumped in the aging-as-gracefully-as-it-can Toyota, and hit Lake Shore Drive.
A few minutes after I got to work I felt warm. Uncomfortably so. My lower back was sweating. I thought that maybe I was coming down with the summer flu that’s making some of my friends miserable. An hour later, I started to feel genuinely uncomfortable in my clothes. “Jesus Christ,” I mumbled, “it feels like I’m wearing a diaper.”
I went to the men’s room around 2:30. At that moment of partial disrobing, I realized to my absent-minded horror that I was still wearing the running shorts I put on at 7 a.m. In my haste to get to work, I never noticed that I was putting my pants on over my shorts. In hindsight, I remembered wondering why I had a harder time buttoning them only hours after my last attempt.
There’s no moral here. No clever wrap-up. I put my pants on over my shorts. That’s it.