RIPPED

Yesterday was a Robert Burns kind of day. The long-deceased Bobby was a Scottish poet, and he titled one of his works, which was the theme for my day, "To a Louse." In this ditty, a sophisticated woman attends church services dressed in her Sunday best, looking high dollar, but all Burns can focus on, as he sits behind her, is the filthy louse that is crawling on her bonnet. I can't remember the exact translated words, but the gist of the message is that it would be nice to have the power to see ourselves as others see us.

Which brings me to my Robert Burns day, filled with a morning's worth of errands: the pharmacy, grocery store, Dollar General, bank, post office, and library. When I returned home around noon, Big Bore said from another room, "Come here," an inquisitive look on his face.

"What's the matter?" I asked, and came closer to him.

"Turn around."

I obeyed.

"Did you know you have a big rip in your shorts?"

"Oh, crap!!" It suddenly dawned on me that at the end of last summer my butt had busted through the seam of these purple shorts, and I had forgotten to patch them. I'd just washed them, put them back into the dresser, and spaced out the 6-inch long gaping hole. Now, nine months later, I had put them back on and was displaying my gray Haines all over town!

"No one said a word to me," I told BB. "Do you suppose my T-shirt covered the rip?"

"Well, I noticed it from 15 feet away."

Lousy.