My mornings are all the same. Get up, slam a fistful of Zyrtec (I am allergic to all known vegetation), flip on the Frankenkitchen, shower, dress, name my ensemble, spackle on some Clinique, toss in a few spritzes of perfume, roll out.
(Yes, I really do name my outfits. Today is, “Woodstock Xanadu,” yesterday was, “A Scarf Turns H&M Into Prada,” Wednesday was “Doctor Who Dominatrix.”)
I have a whole Observational Stopwatch system that tells me if I’m going to be late for work. If I’m on the elevator with the Milk Slurp Twins, I’m early. If I’m on with the Overly Friendly Howdy There, Lady Neighbor, I’m late.
My walk to the Metro has another stopwatch: Fleece With a Tie Guy. He got this name because, not surprisingly, he wears a fleece over his shirt and tie. I don’t know why I find it so distressing. First off, I have very, very few opinions on male fashion (manties, man-thongs and mandals: kill me now; well-made suit: hot). Second, it’s a rather nice fleece.
If I run into him within a block of the Metro, I'm on time. But I usually have to stop and ponder as to why he doesn’t own a proper overcoat. And that always makes me a minute or two late for work. Someday, in the pursuit of punctuality, I’ll stop and ask him. “Excuse me, sir, why don’t you have an overcoat? Did your wife not buy you one?” Oh, hell, then he’ll think I’m hitting on him. How do you ask someone why they don’t have a fairly mainstream article of clothing?
Today was a little different, though. I was late because I saw a man pushing an empty stroller around, and I kept wondering if I should ask if he forgot his baby. How do you ask about that? “Does your wife have the baby?” Oh, hell, then he’ll think I’m hitting on him too, and my commute will be wall-to-wall sexual harassment lawsuits.
Lastly, I’m sad that my new job doesn’t entail the Homeless Fashion Police or One-Legged Pigeon of yesteryear. But I guess Fleece With a Tie Guy and Empty Stroller Daddy will have to do.
In the comments, tell me what you saw on your way to work today. Or tell me about those random people in the red coats who meet in Farragut Square every morning...they're kinda creepy.