I try to avoid this admission at work whenever possible, but today there was no getting around it. I rode in to work just in time to shower and make a quick meeting. Then, naked as a jaybird in the dressing room, turning my backpack inside out, I realized I forgot my pants. I'd packed my shirt and sweater, underwear, belt, socks, shoes, spare bike parts and tools, a notebook, my wallet and phone, a book to read at lunch, some notes for a project I'm working on involving a bicycle-powered washing machine, but no pants.
I had a few options at this point. Newscaster style: put on the shirt and sweater and sit at my desk in bike shorts and bike cleats. Own it: wear the cycling kit all day as if I consider it acceptable work attire. Balloon Boy style: call Lauren on my cell and hide in the bathroom until she could bring me my pants.
I chose a hybrid of options 2 and 3: own it until such time as Lauren could bring me my pants. But to make matters worse, we had a company meeting this morning to discuss next year's retirement plan. Clippety-clopping around the office like a lost pony, I felt too awkward to own it without some disclaimer so I told my supervisor, and everyone standing around, whom I thought was the team from Edward Jones, that I'd forgotten my pants.
Turns out, there was only one guy from Edward Jones. The other folks in our lobby this morning were potential clients. It's hard to say at this point whether pony-boy the pantsless wonder is tallied in their pro or con column.