Likely, now and then, here and there, we step into a circumstance unintentionally and find egg on our faces with many a witness ogling our discomfort. Our cheeks redden and, if the situation stimulates gossip, later retellings renew a facial flushing. However, given my age and high level of maturity, I'm not prone to self-consciousness within most human settings and climate. I'm not immune though. Allow me to put my ego front and center while recapping a recent episode.
First, dear reader, I ask you to tap into your memory bank for a review of your most notable gaffes. Perhaps you locked yourself out of a car. Or you forgot some notable's name; or you made a statement in front of witnesses that you felt certain to be true. But then someone quickly established otherwise. We are all guilty; none can say they didn't look foolish one way or the other even if subsequently scrambling back to normalcy without lifelong penalty. Have you found that past, unintended consequence that set you back in your self esteem at least temporarily?
If so, I now begin my tale.
One late fall morning, shortly after I awakened, freshened my face, and undertook all toilet expediencies, I donned a pair of boxers before heading for the kitchen and fixing a cup of java. (No, I don't wear jammies. You don't need to know more than that.) On the way, in the hall, I turned on the forced-air heating unit. Then, after a couple of sips of coffee, I started a fire in my woodstove.
Ordinarily, alongside the iron heating box, I keep a cradle of logs and a couple of five-gallon buckets holding kindling of various sizes. This one morning, having neglected the night before to bring in a fresh supply of starter fagots*, I stepped outside to quickly bring in a bundle from the woodshed. The air was a bit nippy, but I had on a pair of slippers and figured to complete the chore in under a minute. No need to slip into my standard working jumpsuit or wear socks and shoes.
With musculature prepared for a hurried expedition, I quickly closed the door behind me before the quick jaunt to the woodshed immediately across my main driveway. Wait, what caused that clicking sound — that sound of a locking mechanism inadvertently triggered by my closing the door? Naagh, it's gotta be something else. Nope. Sorry. Like it or not, the door could not be opened. It must have been a reflex to turn the inside locking knob as I opened the door. What difference the cause or the perpetrator? The kindling assignment had to be put on hold.
More importantly, the cold started to shiver me timbers. Nothing gained by standing on the stoop. My brain suggested taking the back steps to the deck and checking the sliding door to the dining room. I might've opened it just before making a pot of coffee. Not the case; a wasted trip. I had not touched the latch. What next Mr. Cold And Helpless?
I had two options: 1.) Head up the weedy, rocky hill to my northern neighbor, or 2.) Take the rear, nearly level dirt road to my eastern neighbor – both about 150 yards distant portal to portal. Each household had been given keys to my casa prior to my leaving California last year on an extended cross-country adventure. I selected #2. That choice allowed me to walk more comfortably in slippers, and further to spend less time out in the open where I might be spotted.
Walking with discrete caution to limit dirt and debris falling into my slippers, I reached Dale & Shirley's side door in their open garage. I pounded quite loudly, and soon heard someone opening the door. I hollered out, "Shirley, if that's you, don't open the door fully. I'm out here in just my boxers. I locked myself out, and need the key you folks have to my house." She opened the door just enough to speak more clearly to me, saying, "I'll go get Dale. He knows where the key is anyway."
Soon enough, Dale stepped outside to hand me the key while chuckling. He understood why I didn't dawdle to chitchat, even though my epidermis had partially inured itself to the outdoors chill. Nevertheless, I hastened to return home and build a proper fire to warm the cockles of a squire's heart.
PS: Over the past 25 plus years living in San Luis Obispo, I've observed much wildlife. Some incidences I've shared with the Slo Coast Journal's readership. Nevertheless, I had never expected to feature myself as part of the fauna. Well, at least I didn't flail about totally nude as reported for the feature, Yellowjackets, in the January 2011 edition.
*For those who might have felt uneasy over my using the word fagot, please to note the single 'g' and then go to a dictionary. (The Free Dictionary: "fagot - A bundle of twigs, sticks, or branches bound together.")
