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This morning I slept in again. When I woke I ran a brush through my hair, grabbed my Iowa Chicks Knitting t-shirt and a pair of old jeans and put them on, and rushed out the door.

Well, not before tossing a piece of lasagna into a tupperware and grabbing a fork. I made a pan of lasagna for dinner last night and there’s not much better for a morning commute snack than pasta.

I’m babbling. The point is, I hurried. Too much to look at my ass in a mirror before leaving.

Walking into the data center (I’m at work today because Buzz is on vay-cay) I saw my reflection in the glass door and thought, ‘Huh. So that’s why people in their late 30’s look like dorks. They’re old enough to own clothes that are ten years old and still fit.’

I’m wearing Levi’s low-slung relaxed fit wide leg jeans, and I’m lucky I live in Iowa where no one will (a) see me or (b) care how much a big dork I am.

I want a pair of old-style 501’s that fit. Is there such a thing? Looking at my jeans this morning I noticed that while they’re all Levi’s, they’re all completely different styles.

I hate jeans. Especially women’s jeans. This is why I wear skirts, like, all the time.

For some reason they’ve got a big trench dug down the center of Burlington, and traffic’s funneled into one lane each direction, and there are about five million orange cones set out, and ‘USE THIS LANE’ signs with arrows and flashing lights, and there is literally tons of heavy equipment all painted orange, and it’s loud and smelly but populated by deeply tanned, shirtless road crew guys who’ll smile if you wave at them.

I decided to have take-out India Cafe buffet for lunch today, and ended up walking about eight blocks to get there and back, even though it’s only three blocks away. (No way was I going to attempt hopping over the trench in an ankle-length skirt and heeled sandals in front of backed-up semi traffic, thank you very much. My clutz gene is too expressed to take that kind of risk. Especially on the way back with the food.)

I got my lunch, paid the cute guy with the endless eyelashes and sparkling black eyes, and sauntered my circuitious route back to the office, where I sat at my desk reading blogs and eating. Of course I got some dhal on my shirt. I don’t think I’ve eaten a single thing without getting any on my clothes in the past five years. I don’t know why this is, other than God hates me and wants me to suffer.