We have a dress code in my house. It is strict. It is unwavering. And it is unwritten. Oh – and one more thing – it applies to only one person.  Me. . . . .   Dress code enforcement is much like a thunderstorm. Hard to predict. But when it happens, one must take shelter or suffer the consequence.

A few weeks ago, I got up early to play golf with my pals. I went downstairs for cereal, blueberries and coffee. Then dashed upstairs for a quick shower.  And I got dressed in my favorite shorts and a golf shirt. And thunder began to rumble. . . .   Donna looked at my shorts – and the storm began. “You can’t wear those shorts! They’re frayed.” I told her that I’d had my shorts since college. They were “veteran” shorts.  But that didn’t help.  As I was walking out the door, I was told to change them. But I didn’t abide by those instructions. The golf went pretty well – due in large part to my shorts.  When I came home, I put my shorts in the laundry basket.  

Weeks later, I was scratching my head – looking for my shorts.  “Donna, do you know where those – umm – golf shorts of mine are?   The ones I had in college?”  Donna shook her head – with the glint of a smile.  “I haven’t seen them.”  It was then I realized that my special golf shorts sleep with the fishes . . . . .”