I neglected to do laundry over the weekend, and was down to the dregs of my wardrobe on Monday morning. But after reviewing my mental calendar I realized it didn’t matter: I had no work meetings scheduled and would, in all likelihood, sail through my day without interacting with anyone. So I struggled into old moss-green and thoroughly pilled sweater, one that had shrunk so much over a decade of washing that it now just barely reached my beltline, and was so tight that if felt like a full-torso blood pressure monitor.
It wasn’t until the afternoon that I remembered that I had agreed to meet my friend L. after work for a drink. I thought about going home first to change, but then decided not to bother. I’ve known L. forever, and it was going to be dark in the bar anyhow, so it’s not as if anyone would notice or care.
As predicted L. didn’t say a word when I removed my jacket at the tavern, and we chatted for a few minutes before our waitress arrived to take our food order. I settled on the Italian sausage and red pepper sandwich.
“What do you want as the side?” she asked. “You can have salad, or the soups today are minestrone, cream of potato, and clam chowder.”
“I’ll go for the chowder,” I said, adding, after a moment’s reflection, “I am probably the first person in the history of the world to order an Italian Sausage sandwich with clam chowder. Could you guys name that combination after me?”
“Sure,” the waitress said. “We’ll call it ‘The Sweaterboy’.”