Here's one for the ladies: Have you ever worried about leaving the bathroom and forgetting to pull your pants up? Not just the zipper, the whole pant.
Because I do. This is a real possibility because when I'm on the throne, I'm thinking deep thoughts. Or I'm involved in a magazine article. Or I'm so spaced out that my thoughts would read like Homer Simpson's: DoDooDeeDooo.
But my attention span is so diverted at times that post-restroom pantslessness could happen. It would take me tripping over them or walking like I'm trying on shoes at Academy where they join the shoes together with a wire the thickness of telephone lines before I had even an inkling something was wrong.
I think I would remember to pull my underwear up. (Note that I did not say the "p" word.) It's simply the pants.
I'm also avoiding checking my sent box at present. Reason being I emailed my friend Glenn asking if he is going to photograph the "sluts and dudes" on 6th Street for Halloween.
He hasn't answered me.
I think I sent it to my mom.
We're all afraid of say "I love you" to our boss as we hang up the phone. But what if you have a dream where you're in love with your boss? (I can't believe I'm talking about this. This is how certain I am that like 10 people read this blog.) And what was really gnarly was he was this gross, abusive a-hole. I swear I drank caffeine nonstop for a week just so I didn't fall asleep.
Then there's the time when my skirt hitched up past my right arse cheek in rush hour Chicago. I really thought I looked hot because 400 guys passed me with huge smiles on their faces. Not until three blocks later did a WOMAN, of course, tell me what was up, so to speak.
There's always the emailing someone and spilling your heart out at 3am. On Ambien. I woke up early the next morning lazily at first then with the force of the space shuttle when I vaguely thought I remembered but was making vows to God about faithful churchgoing that I didn't do what I did.
And this is why I avoid sent boxes. Some things should just remain a mystery.