My Button

In the middle of the day today, the top button on my shirt decided it wanted to fall off. I should clarify: It was not the very top button, which you would only button if you were a dork, or if you were wearing a tie. It was the highest-up button that I actually did button. All set? Do you follow? Okay, let’s move on.

So, the button pops off and its hanging by a thread. I do what I can to make that part of my shirt look like its still buttoned, because, if I don’t, I’ll end up looking like a 70s style pimp, my chest hair showing and all that. But, I’m not having much luck. Eventually, I just cut the damn thread and stuff the button into the front pocket of my backpack, figuring, “We’ll deal with you later.”

Now, since I’m in the office by myself, this isn’t really a big deal. But, I’m planning on going to a reading this evening, so I have to come up with something before I leave. My solution? I used scotch tape.

And it worked.

Although I found myself staring down at my chest an awful lot during the rest of the afternoon and evening, it all worked out in the end. Sara, Jill, and I, along with a couple of Sara’s coworkers, took in a reading by Vestal Mcintyre. He read from his debut collection, You Are Not The One and was quite good. Assorted Lesley folks were there, as was a guy I knew in high school. Neither him nor I made the move to say hello, but I think we both cast a couple of glances at each other and he probably would have stopped to say hello if he could remember my name.

Why I didn’t say hello is beyond me. Maybe it had something to do with the button.