I’m ready. When the occasion calls for it, I have the wardrobe. Whether it’s a church service, funeral, wedding or potluck supper — often the same thing — I’m prepared for the event. It’s called dressing appropriately and I don’t use big words like “dressing” lightly.
Recently, I read a cruising blog that debated dress codes aboard the ships. Was it okay, they wondered, wearing a robe and pajamas to breakfast in the restaurant. My answer was yes, if those same people also wear pajamas to funerals, weddings and potluck suppers.
I don’t know the current slang for “fuddy duddy,” but I am one, for sure. Unlike the hapless tourist who couldn’t distinguish a cruise ship restaurant from their own bathroom vanity, I don’t need a reminder from the dining room captain to wear proper clothing in a very public setting.
But it’s not a new thing. Attending an opera in 1980 at Northrup Auditorium with a group of executives, we spied a middle-age female patron wearing hair curlers. One of us actually asked her about it and “Karen” frostily told us she was “going somewhere important right after the performance.” Narcissist comes to mind, but that’s another big word I never use.
It’s summertime here in the land of the free and folks are pretty serious about having fun. You can tell by the number of short shorts, tank tops, no-tops and flip-flops that walk the path in front of our patio. And me, I do my part here at the home of the brave, to keep the view unobstructed by branches, blinders, divorce court and sunglasses.
With one recent exception, our fellow cliff dwellers are respectful, routine, quiet and sober. As for the exception, she was intoxicated, passed out in the concrete breezeway and her belongings were scattered a hundred feet behind her. She was fully dressed, including nose rings and eyebrow earrings, but her only problem was being homeless.
There was no need to check vital signs because the snoring gave her away. I didn’t look in her purse, because my doctor said no heavy lifting, but did call 911 for her safety. (And mine).
Ten minutes later, two cops arrived and ten minutes after that, she was on her feet.
It turns out she’s the friend of a young woman who’s visiting their boyfriend in an upstairs apartment. You’ll probably connect those dots before I do. I’m still trying to figure out if living in a gated community means we’re friendly tenants or neighborly inmates.
Ours is what you might describe as a middle-class apartment community of 10,000 souls. Most are hardworking, good-living families with 2.5 kids trashing Tonka Toys right above our living room. Surrounding us are 50,000 more neighbors who escaped from the state capital, just thirty miles or a 90-minute drive from here.
Just five minutes away, however, are all the usual box stores, food vendors, wireless providers and million-dollar coffee shops. That’s where you’ll find people trolling the aisles or surfing the internet in tank tops, unisex Crocs and tattered bathrobes. They try to act naturally and, when I see them, so do I.
We don’t have a homeless problem here. That’s because many move about disguised as White Castle employees or members of Congress. They’re easy to spot, if you know what to look for. Homeless people carry photo I.D.s. If all else fails, they fall down, pass out and sleep it off in our breezeway. No, not the congressmen, but the people who live with their gal pal’s boyfriend.
I have a Zoom meeting today. Time to change into my business pajamas.
Roger Clark is a 40-year trucker too young for retirement, too old for a paper route and too tired to have an affair. He can be reached at [email protected].
