Last week, as delicately as she could, a boss of mine told me I was walking around with a pants leg stuck in my sock.
I worry myself.
No offense to the Betty Whites of the world, but mentally, I sometimes feel 90.
I’ve misplaced things as large as an automobile. I once locked myself in a trunk. I’m like a pack of firecrackers: I need adult supervision.
Help is out there, I’m fairly confident.
Perhaps a guide dog or a personal assistant. Maybe Apple will invent a implantable chip that works like a surveillance camera, recording my every move.
Then I could push rewind when I lose the keys.
Until then, be a friend.
If my fly’s open, please let me know about it.