Walk of Shame

On occasion I will run errands while wearing pajamas. I know, I am a bit of a risk taker, a rebel. My sleepwear is nothing like the attire in a Victoria’s Secret catalog. I prefer to look like I am playing right field in a softball game. Yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt are better than birth control pills. I only stop at places with drive thru windows. I would never get out of my car while wearing pajamas. Well, that is, until this morning.

I planned to make a quick trip to the bank. I had my deposit slip signed and card ready. I wore sunglasses hoping to avoid eye contact and an extended conversation. Unfortunately, I live in a small town. “Good morning, Deanna,” said the teller, recognizing me immediately. “How many kids do you have with you today?” I don’t have time for small talk. I needed to get home and put on a bra. She passed my debit card and receipt through the retractable metal drawer. I grabbed the receipt, but couldn’t pick up the card. I tried from every angle, but it wouldn’t budge. I flashed back to 7th grade technology class. At the beginning of the year the shop teacher gave a lecture about equipment safety. He raised a hand and described how he carelessly shaved off part of his index finger. Then, he placed a dime on the table and directed us to watch him pick it up. He tried over and over, but couldn’t get that coin off the table. I guess the lesson was if you aren’t careful, you will be out ten cents. It didn’t have the impact on us that he intended.

I tried to slide the card to the edge of the tray, but I pushed too far. I watched helplessly as it tumbled to the ground, landing underneath my minivan. My hair was in a sloppy pony tail. There was a hole in the right leg of my yoga pants. Now, I was crawling on the ground. It was out of my reach. I had no choice, but to pull the van forward. I had no choice, but to walk in front of the cashier’s window and retrieve my card. I left my pride on the cement and drove directly home.