Inside out, right side in

So this morning, this very fine morning, this very fine Friday morning, I had a little bit of an episode.

After John checking me out in a shirt he likes, and even fiddling with it a little (no, not in a gross way!) I leave my pretty, safe apartment to go to work.

As I’m sauntering out, feeling pretty in my pretty shirt and the pretty morning, just a tad chilly, I notice something.

My shirt is on very inside out.

Now I’m pretty close to the train at this point, with only a Starbucks as a saving grace, but the Starbucks is still pretty far, on the other side of the train where I need to go. And I’m only a couple of steps away from the hordes and hordes of well dressed trixies that get on at my stop.

I’m too far from home to go back, I would have been late, and I hate being late, even if it’s at a job I’m leaving in what is now two days.

What to do? What is a respectable woman to do?

Well, I ducked into the alley, did a quick check to make sure there were no apparent eyes on me, and I take off my shirt.

In the alley.

And turned it back rightside in.

The mere second (or 10) that I was in the alley with no top on, was really quite liberating if not completely fearful.

My shirt got caught in my hair clip, my arms were flailing for just the most frightening of seconds, and then…the real sense of freedom.

The freedom of wearing a shirt. It’s not constricting! It means freedom.

Clothes mean freedom.

And that is my Friday lesson.