You never know when the cosmos is listening

One morning, about a month ago, I turned off the alarm. I didn't really want to get up, and the sigh on the other side of the bed told me I wasn't alone in my procrastinating to get the day started. I was idly scratching my husband's back, running my wardrobe through my head when I absentmindedly said, "I don't know what to wear today."

He rolled over and thoughtfully looked at the ceiling, all calm, as he said quietly: "I know. I have that same problem. I think that today I'll wear the blue one. Or the blue one. Or.....the blue one."

I smacked him on the arm. "That's not fair. You have a uniform, and you don't have to think about it."

He started listing all the reasons why he did have to think about it, something about different vests require different shirts, different pants, different this, different that, blah blah blah, and just as I was about to smother him with a pillow, he got up and started getting ready for work, so I snuggled the pillow for 15 more minutes instead, wardrobe forgotten for zzz's.

It's funny how the universe works. You meet strangers who know the same people you do at the playground; you run into relatives when you're on vacation; you say or wish something and suddenly, it happens.

That Friday, I got the news at work that the company decided that all lab personnel were going to be required to wear scrubs. They would buy them for us, and by the next Tuesday, we were trying them on. And they arrived about 10 days later.

They are black--we are a lab full of geek ninjas. And in spite of the fact that they are comfortable and it's like wearing pajamas to work, the first day I wore them, I felt as asexual as a sack of potatoes. Even though I was the first one to say that scrubs, with their utilitarian opacity, offered the perfect opportunity to wear wild underthings, I just couldn't get my groove on.

I'm hoping the zebra print clogs I am currently lusting after will take care of that.