Friends don’t let friends walk around with dust on their butts. So what does that say about a couple of my “friends,” we’ll call them “Mike” and “Dean,” who let me walk around all last Wednesday night looking like that ∧∧∧∧∧ ?
It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d been walking around, say, Cleveland or Lincoln, Nebraska but no. I was walking around Paris, the fashion capital of the world, looking like a fashion disaster and not because I was wearing shorts and black socks, but because I was wearing black capris with beige dust. I don’t know where or when said dust adhered to said black capris. It could have been on the chair I sat in at the hotel where we met before heading out to dinner. It could have been on the train. It could have been in the restaurant where we ate. But I didn’t realize I had schmutz on my butt until I got back to my room. You know that feeling? That retroactive embarrassment? When you realize you’d been walking around all night thinking you looked all cute in your black capris and you actually looked somewhat homeless?
I was always taught that if you see something embarrassing going on with someone else, you should discretely tell them about it as long as you honestly believe they can fix it. Toilet paper on a shoe? Say something. Mascara smudged under an eye? Speak up. A huge festering zit on their chin? Uh, no. A sign on someone’s back that says, “Kick me!” Of course. Unless you’re the one who put it there.
If I had been there with my girlfriends, heck, any girls at all, I know they would have had my backside. (sorry) The worst part is, the dust came right off with just a few brushes with my hand. A totally reversible fashion disaster.
So I asked my so-called friends Mike and Dean the next morning if they’d noticed the huge swath of dirt on my butt.
“Well, uh, I didn’t want to—”
No? My ass.