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 . . . . .”