Anatomy of an Outfit

So as I am getting ready for bed I realize that my current outfit tells the story of today. This morning instead of going to the gym I decided to eat baked goods. I was showered, dressed and ready to begin my journey toward a carbohydrate induced coma by 9 am. White shirt, blue capris, both ironed, hair actually done, and a sweater in case it got a little chilly in the bakery. Off to Les Madeleines with a friend who is about to be induced and needed to squeeze in some beignets before birthing. Bakery tasting over, two thumbs up for the Kouing-aman, slightly less enthusiasm for the beignets (I realize this isn't New Orleans but there's still that moment of hope right before you taste something). Back at home, feeling the sugar buzzing and allowing myself about an hour before the crash and then the coma, I emabark on the dishes. Now white shirt is wet waist high. Losing the strength and will to clean, I lie down to log in the begninnings of my daily television dose. Fashionable flats removed, feet now cold, I dig in my sock drawer for the first match. I settle on some striped socks that could only be improved if the individual toes were multi-colored and divided. After my reunion with the Real Housewives of NYC, and recognizing that piano students are soon to arrive, I decide to get a second load of dishes in the dishwasher. (That's right, there was an accumulation large enough to warrant two loads and some handwashing today). Now, wet at the waist again but not enough time to change as the first piano student arrrives early, I grab the closest sweatshirt. The oversized red park city rescue sweatshirt. Four lessons later I've agreed to walk my last student to the park to meet her aunt. I grab my running shoes by the door. The construction workers on the street that I might be trying to protect my charge from are looking at us like maybe they ought to call Child Protective Services and report a homeless woman following a young girl on a scooter toward the park. On the return trip, I walk with the confidence of a home-owner and reach to swing open my door to find it locked. The sheer act of knocking raises the whole homelessness question again. My husband lets me in. On to making pancake puffs (yes, the ones 'not sold in stores' but rather 'as seen on tv') before soccer practice (refer to the dandelion picker from past posts). Pancakes puffed, kids stuffed, we're out the door. Halfway through practice, while talking to the dads, I notice the drips of batter running through "park city" and "rescue". Back home again for the last time of the day, one extra kid for at least an hour and the last set of dishes to be done, I take off my sweatshirt. As I tug to pull it free from my head, I notice my shirt has come off with it. Good thing I didn't get hot at soccer practice. I think tomorrow's going to be a pajama day.