Little Signs, Little Omens

I knew the day was going to be a rough one the minute I hit the door.

I was in such a rush to get out the door and look presentable for work that I got dressed in a haste. Deodorant? check. Teeth brushed? check. Clean socks? check. Lunch packed? check.

In my rush to dot the 'Is' of the morning, I neglected to put on the right pants.

Every girl has a closet full of a variety of black pants. The too-small black pants. The tight-to- show-off-the-booty-going-out black pants. The dressed-for-Grandma's-funeral black pants. Longer-than-shorts capri black pants, and of course the Summer-just-hits-the-ankles black pants.

I didn't realize just how wrong my pants were until I made it outside, about four minutes from when my bus was to arrive.

The chilly (although way warmer than recent days) wind hit my hairy ankles with a force that made me regret my mistake.

All day long I was trapped in a struggle, scooch the pants down and make them just barely touch the top of my shoes (and model a wonderful example of muffin top) or sack up and wear the pants the way a girl's supposed to, the fluffy fringe of my wintertime neglect just millimeters away from plain sight.

Crap.

My own wardrobe malfunction, nagging and teasing me all day long, and I took it as a sign that the rest of my day would be pretty much effed.

I think we all operate on this premise. Life hands us little signs, little clues as to how a day's supposed to go. My mom swears she's in for good luck if she hears The Animals' The House of the Rising Sun on the radio. A couple times I got a major boost of happy endorphins when I crossed a passing breeze smelling like my long gone grandfather's cologne.

Don't you wonder what kind of sign, what kind of signal Britney Spears got to inspire her latest, bare-it-all hair style?

Despite all these figurative warning signs and hidden signals, I seriously question whether I should write the day off on the mornings I wear the too-short, ready for the flood black pants? Or is this an instance where God allows me to press the Easy button on my theological right of free will, a chance to say Woah! to the horses of fate and turn the wagons around for greener pastures?

Who cares if people might have noticed my High Waders.

Tomorrow I can get dressed again and put on a different pair of pants, and a different disposition.

Besides, it could be worse.

At least I didn't have to suffer with a load of bird poop from that pigeon that passed over me at Government Square this morning.