Oh yeah, it’s a Monday.

And how do I know it’s a Monday? Simple.
I live out in the middle of freakin’ nowhere. Nearest neighbors are a quarter of a mile away. I’ve gotten quite used to the nice wide swath of relative privacy, so much so that I do stuff like step outside in the dead of night in my underwear to pour fresh dog food. Or take trash out to the curb wearing…well…not much more than that.
So I woke up this morning to take the trash out, do a couple of chores around the house, and go back to bed. My hair’s all over the place like I’m some sorta refugee from Split Enz or something, and that’s the beauty of it – no one’s around to see. I don’t have to care at nine in the morning.
So I gather up the trash, slip on my bedroom slippers, throw on some swim trunks that I’ve lost too much weight to really wear, but hey, it’s out in the middle of nowhere and I’m only taking out the trash. Throw on a bathrobe over that – to which I can’t find the belt because my cat has claimed it as a toy again – and I’m good to go. So I make a couple of trips to haul all the trash out to the side of the road, and on my second trip, I hear a car coming. Bah. No big deal. People take that corner so fast they probably never see how much I’m not wearing.
I bend over to put down the rest of the trash, and the swim trunks start goin’ down too. And then I realize.
It’s not one car.
It’s a funeral procession.
About 30, 35 cars. And I’m doing my best to stand perfectly still so my shorts don’t travel the rest of the way down to my ankles. How Seinfeldian. This kinda stuff only happens to me. And…well…Seinfeld.
Oh yeah, it’s Monday. Memo to the residents of this fine upstanding rural Arkansas community: I hope you enjoyed my crotch.
Okay, I’m going back to bed now.

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