As I'm putting on my pants today, my left leg misfired, and my foot caught something on the inside of my pants. My foot and leg were stopped and my ears heard what sounded like a rip.
I looked the pants over as good as I could and found no holes visible. So I concluded it must have been the zipper, which I discovered was not fully disengaged to begin with. Since I would have to change the rest of my outfit if I decided to wear another pair of pants, and since I am lazy, I just decided to go with it.
As soon as I'm pulling away from my house I'm having second thoughts about my decision. Maybe I missed something. Maybe I'm happily flapping in the breeze, blissfully ignorant.
So I begin to look myself over when I get out of the car and find some light. But then I think that is an awful strange thing to do to oneself where others can see. So I boldly pressed onward.
Around others, I feel strangely exposed and vulnerable. Can they see something I can't? Perhaps I am fodder for laughter the moment I'm gone. My fears are slowly becoming paranoia.
I fight the urge to look and feel around "down there" for a hole or tear or rip, concluding that would look worse for me than any real defect in my attire. So I carry on.
I try to convince myself that such things are no big deal. That it is just vanity. It's just a superficiality whether my clothing keeps me modest and humble. If that's what's important to somebody, they're just shallow, right?
Relaxing a little, I can begin to strut around. What have I got to be ashamed of anyway? Then I'm bothered by my conscience. Pride is very unbecoming, and, we are warned, comes before a fall.
So I slouch back down and begin to hurriedly move about. I check my fly on the run for the 12th time. The next nine hours of my day should be interesting, if not long.
My intention? To remain seated with knees together at my desk for as much of the day as possible. Toileting and eating are over-rated anyway. It'll be dark when I leave.
I should be fine.