We all put our pants on one leg at a time...well, when we get around to it

We must all be accountable for our choices. Granted...it takes me a while to establish a healthy routine when summer arrives. For a few days (weeks...months...), I tend to sleep in, stagger out to the living room, stare blurrily at the screen for a while, fall into a hypnotic trance (also known as First Nap), to then read drivel.

(Fast forward to this morning when, responding to my annoyance that I didn't know my assigned reading because I like to print it out in a larger-to-read font, Brad asked why I just didn't being my Kindle. "I'm not bringing the devil's device to church!" I told him indignantly.)

So anyhoo...before ALL of this, comes The Choice:  To put on pants or to not put on pants? Very Shakespearean.

The very idea of Summer Break is to be freed from all restrictions. Including an elastic waistband. The morning in question, I made an unfortunate choice. From the dining room, at the unreasonable hour of before 9 am, came a gentle knock and a soft, "Hello?" through the screen door. The dogs tore through the house, barking their enthusiastic welcome. Thank goodness they lack opposable thumbs to maneuver the door latch or I would have been doomed. Meanwhile, in the living room, I was caught...red-handed...er...no pants-ed. I held my breath (my patented strategy for not getting discovered when playing hide-and-seek) and debated my options. I do not have enough friends to risk sacrificing the unknown one at the door who was happily conversing with my dogs who, in their canine language, were, at this moment, attempting to rat me out. Could my blanket double as a passable sarong? What if I belly-crawled through the kitchen to get to my pants-filled closet? Or maybe a series of swift somersaults? Would she notice from her clear vantage-point? Finally, I decided to dash downstairs to wrestle a dirty pair of pants from the laundry. By the time I re-emerged from the dungeon (I fly up the stairs from a lifelong fear of a skeletal hand grabbing me from beneath the stairwell), my friend was gone. Perhaps forever.

I was left with the consequences of my actions. Because of my refusal to put on pants, I may have missed out on a life-changing visit from Publisher's Clearing House. It could have been one of those home make-over shows. Or it could have been a beloved friend looking to share a coffee and some conversation. For want of some pants, a personal encounter was lost.

The moral of this story is pretty obvious. For pete's sake:  Put on some pants!