Yesterday morning, rushing to get to his office a few miles away, my husband left something at home that he needed. Being the wonderful, compassionate, dutiful and adoring wife that I am, willing to put aside my own needs for the fulfillment of his at a moment's notice, I dropped everything and ran out to deliver the item with nary a thought to how I looked, which has become my habit the longer I live in Maine. Dressed in flannel pajamas -- hey, it was still early -- I threw on a yellow rain slicker and stuck my feet into a pair of pink plastic Crocs. A quick glance in the mirror revealed an escapee from a mental hospital, but I figured Mitch would meet me at the car and nobody would be the wiser.
Once at my destination I threw caution to the wind and walked right in the front door of the office building, up a flight of steps and past several businesses. I was seen by no less than five people (three women and two men), none of whom raised an eyebrow at my attire. Having delivered the goods to my husband, I returned to my car. Eager to test the limits of this who-gives-a-damn look, I stopped at the post office for the mail. Again, nobody seemed put off by my outfit, not even one of my neighbors who usually sees me looking quite stylish.
Now drunk with power I took it a step further and went to the supermarket, since I was low on coffee and planned to stay in all morning working on a story. Walking up and down the aisles and passing at least a dozen other shoppers, it was apparently no big deal that some lady was running around in her PJs. In fact, I barely looked any different from many of the other women.
There's no punchline. In fact, for the first time in my life I can honestly say "it is what it is."
Once at my destination I threw caution to the wind and walked right in the front door of the office building, up a flight of steps and past several businesses. I was seen by no less than five people (three women and two men), none of whom raised an eyebrow at my attire. Having delivered the goods to my husband, I returned to my car. Eager to test the limits of this who-gives-a-damn look, I stopped at the post office for the mail. Again, nobody seemed put off by my outfit, not even one of my neighbors who usually sees me looking quite stylish. Now drunk with power I took it a step further and went to the supermarket, since I was low on coffee and planned to stay in all morning working on a story. Walking up and down the aisles and passing at least a dozen other shoppers, it was apparently no big deal that some lady was running around in her PJs. In fact, I barely looked any different from many of the other women.
There's no punchline. In fact, for the first time in my life I can honestly say "it is what it is."
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