Spilled coffee on my favorite shirt to start the day. Correction–it’s one of my favorite shirts. It’s gaudy and crass–a blue, Hawaiian souvenir shirt from four years ago. The “just to knock around in shirts” are beginning to clutter my closet. With application of “Stain Wonder Pre-Treat” it will be almost good as new. Sure, it’s a little threadbare, that doesn’t mean I like it any less.
Wardrobe changed and off to the races. “Off to the races” is a euphemism for an entirely different thing. In this case it meant resumption of regular morning routines.
There were euphemisms aplenty when I grew up in the fifties. Bodily functions were talked about indirectly. Pregnancy meant someone was “in the family way.” Little boys sometimes talked about their “winkies.” “Seeing a man about a dog,” meant someone needed to go to the bathroom.
No, I don’t want to play (to the dog). You want to go outside? OK, I can do that.
There were worse blunders. Owning up to mistakes, when mature; knowing there could be consequences, were the worst. Several years ago, when helping my father on the farm during winter break, I caused an expensive equipment repair due to my forgetfulness.
All right–I hear you. Don’t tear the door off. I’ll be right there. I can only go so fast. The dogs demanded to be let back in.
“Just getting over getting over you.” Wouldn’t that make a great country song? Like most flashes of sudden brilliance, it has probably been done already.