The day was an extraordinarily busy one. Can I use that as an excuse? I hope so. Anyway, it was January, which means, at work, self evaluation, annual review, and goal-setting time on top of all the other normal work that eight hours every day never seems to be enough time to get done. After work, at 6:00, we had Clare's first puppy obedience class, and after that, we were going to arrive (a bit late) for the deacons' meeting at church (which started at 7:00). I'm not a deacon, but I was attending to propose an idea I had that would involve both elders (I am one of those) and deacons. Bob was attending...well, because he's the minister.
5:00 rolled around, and I was still finishing up responding to emails I'd been putting off responding to all day in favor of other stuff that needed to get done. Somehow, I managed to get them done and breathed a huge sigh of relief to think I still had plenty of time. Then, I remembered that, being a woman, I was married to a man (at least, right now, that's how "marriage" is defined in the state of Pennsylvania). This meant that Bob, being said man, would (sorry, other men who read my blog) work up until the very last minute, make sure he was ready to go, and then expect to leave. It would be up to me to think of such things as feeding the puppy and making sure she'd gone out before we left.
Skip ahead to 5:45. I'm standing outside, still trying to get Clare to "do her business" before we leave. She's busy sniffing around, digging up twigs to eat. Bob comes racing out the door saying, "We must leave now." I'm so flustered -- admittedly, I hadn't realized it was quite so late -- that I rush Clare back into the house to grab my purse and meet Bob at the car.
We've decided, since this is such a short trip, not to bother with Clare's dog carrier, so the 14-minute ride is spent trying to keep her from climbing onto Bob's lap, where she desperately wants to be. Bob's worrying about how late we're going to be (we weren't. We were actually right on time, but we live in Lancaster County, PA, which has its own ideas about time -- Bob and I joke about "real time" and "Lancaster County time". We were there on the dot of six, but everyone else had been sitting around for ten minutes by the time we got there). I was worried about how, since we obviously have very little control over her, Clare was going to be one of those dogs you hear about who flunks obedience school.
Finally, we arrive in the parking lot. With great relief, I open the door, carefully deposit Clare on the pavement, and climb out myself. As we walk towards PetSmart, Bob happens to look down at my feet.
"Oh my God. You're wearing your slippers!" he informs me.
Oh. My. God. I was. And these weren't like those cute Ugg-type slippers that it was very cool for teenagers to wear around town a few years back. No. These are Acorns, with a bright, embarrassing design that brings Spirograph to mind (for those of you old enough to remember Spirograph). I'd worked out and showered at lunch, and slipped into them, planning to change into my boots just before we left. But, obviously, I'd never changed into the boots.
I can't believe it. I've become one of those little old ladies who leaves the house in her slippers. What will be next? A bathrobe and hair curlers? Tell me: should I just shoot myself now?