I'm getting dressed after my morning swim if by "swim" you mean "laboring not to drown for about 3/4s of a mile," chatting with a friend of mine if by "friend" you mean "a guy who actually swims more slowly and ponderously than I do." I pull on my 25 year old dress slacks and my thrift-store suit jacket, don my little pork-pie hat, prompting my buddy to say: "Looking sharp today, Seaweed, looking sharp."
I stand a little taller, smile a little brighter, and make my Grand Exit from the club, a trek that takes me from the rear of the building, past all of the weight machines and exercise classes lining the hall. Looking good, feeling natty.
I toss my swim bag into the trunk and casually note that my fly is extraordinarily open. It was kind of the cherry on top of my outfit.
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