Even though I don't have a lot going on at the office this week, I resolved to be admirably diligent, show my face bright and early and clear some admin tasks from my plate. Thus inexplicably pumped up on some hyper, can-do, go-get-em trip, I set my alarm rather earlier than was necessary.
And slept straight through it. Until 10. Oops.
Anyways, the recap from yesterday's tennis was on, so I figured I'd just watch a few minutes while downing my morning caffeine fix. Next thing I knew, it was almost 11 and I was still in my pyjamas. Shit.
Thinking I would at least benefit from a blissfully empty metro-ride at that hour, I ran off to the station as fast (and as gracefully) as lugging a 2-ton laptop bag and wearing heals will allow. Only to realize with horror that I'd be sharing the steaming carriage with hoards of museum-crazed tourists.
Resigned, I managed to find a fold-out seat to perch on, cracked open my book and ignored everybody else for the next 20 minutes. At which point I got up, gathered my bags, and noticed that my shirt buttons had come undone the entire time, revealing rather too much... ummm... undergarment. I hurried off the train with as much dignity as I could muster, clutching my paperback to my bosom, and leaving a thousand foreigners to regale their friends back home with stories about how the French are so liberated and crazy for lingerie that they prance around half-naked in public transport.
Oh God. It's going to be one of those days, isn't it.