Vacation Diary Day Four:
Alan W. Davidson told me the other day to quit sitting around in my underwear.
I should have listened.
But do I really need to get up at the crack of dawn and get fully clothed in too-tight jeans and armour-plated brassiere just so I can sit around in front of the boob tube?
Obviously if Alan W. Davidson had to wear a bra he'd be peeling it off and sling-shotting it into the nearest corner the minute he stepped over his Newfoundland threshold.
Anyway, it was still early. Dave and I had been up for a bit and had watched a chick flick while I sipped my coffee and he drank his juice.
It was pleasant.
I felt no need to be sitting around in anything other than my t-shirt and gotchies.
That is until the movie was over and I went to the front door to let the dog out.
There I was, in my underwear.
And there was my mother and my Aunt Mary coming up the front stoop.
It was like the fire alarm went off.
It was every man for himself.
Dave's eyes popped open, he jumped off the couch and ran, literally ran, into the bedroom. All I saw was a flash of his black Fruit of the Looms disappearing around the corner.
I backed up in what felt like slow motion, each foot mired in quicksand, my mouth frozen in a "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...."
It's only about six steps from the living room to the bedroom but it felt like a mile, the longest of all possible miles, the Superbowl of miles, and I was the quarterback, and I had the ball, and I was so close to a touchdown, but the other team was hot on my trail, and then I realized I was in my underwear, in a stadium, on national TV.
Suddenly I realized I wasn't the quarterback.
I was Janet Jackson.
Heart in mouth I lunged through the bedroom just as Aunt Mary knocked on the front door, opened it a crack and said, "Hello?"