I want to start this post out by mentioning that I have been fighting off some sort of a sickness for about a week, now. It's nothing crazy--just something the kid picked up when he was playing with some other children and brought home to destroy my immune system.
I've been incredibly tired, and my focus is shot. Having a toddler running around the house while you're barely able to remember your name isn't great, but it's manageable. I can lock us both in a baby-gated area, turn on some cartoons, and hopefully neither one of us will hurt ourselves too bad.
Going out, however, is a different story. We needed something from the store a couple days ago--some vegetables for supper, a can of potato soup, and maybe some sort of a special treat for myself because I was heroically surviving the child plague that had befallen our home.
I hate going to the store, even when I'm at the top of my game. The grocery store in a small town is like the watering hole in the Savannah, sort of. It's where you see everyone, whether you want to or not. If you know me, you know that I don't enjoy talking to people, both because I'm socially awkward, and it's only a matter of time before I do something to make myself look stupid, and also because I just don't like being around people.
But we needed our vegetables, and our can of cream of potato soup, and that treat I mentioned, all of that was very necessary. So I threw on my jacket, my winter hat, and my shoes, and went out to brave the elements.
A cold front had moved in, so the temperature outside was 6.
I generally enjoy cold weather--I get grief all season long because I rarely wear anything other than cargo shorts and a t-shirt when I go out (although this year I've enjoyed wearing a zip-up hoodie--which is apparently still not enough to be considered acceptable to the general population). But 6 is cold, even for me.
Still, though, I wasn't about to get all dressed up for a quick trip to the store.
So I made the four-block journey to the grocery store, parked, and crossed the parking lot. I had just made it to the front door when the thought struck me. I was cold. Like, too cold.
And I was horrified to realize that I didn't know if I was wearing pants or not.
This is a strange feeling, even for me. There have been occasions where I have had no pants in situations where I most certainly should have had pants, but it has always been intentional, even if it was a terrible idea.
But to stand there in front of the sliding glass doors of the grocery store, people marching across the parking lot behind me, and a packed establishment waiting ahead, unsure of the amount of...crotchal coverage I was currently sporting...
It was a mortifying experience.
But honestly, even that wasn't as humiliating as what I had to do next: I had to look down and make sure I was wearing pants.
I was, by the way.
Athletic shorts that I rarely wear outside of my home. They're too thin, and worn, and there's a good reason I shouldn't wear them when I deal with normal society, but at least they covered what needed to be covered to keep me out of jail.
So the experience could have been worse. But even though it wasn't as bad as it could have been, I feel like it was still some sort of important marker in my descent into, what? Old age? Just forgetfulness?
I don't know, man. Something.
You know when you're growing up, and you hit those important milestones, like getting your first bra, or growing your first facial hair, or earning your driver's license?
This is like that, but the reverse. I feel like it's a big step in life, but instead of opening new doors of opportunity, or signifying a positive change in both my physical and mental self, it's the opposite.
It's like one step closer to the world being too much for me to handle. I've got to prioritize, I've got to simplify, I've got to make some important life decisions.
So I guess what I'm saying is, you guys, I'm gonna stop wearing pants.
Posted under The Rants on 12/20/16