I spent this morning watching husband whip himself into a froth triggered by the fact that he has left his pants (trousers) at home in London. This means he can’t wear his Bermuda shorts walking as he intended to do because then he won’t have anything to wear out to dinner for the rest of the weekend. This means he is now wandering around our beautiful stone cottage stamping his feet and sighing in his best rendition of a 7-year old girl’s temper tantrum bemoaning his lack of appropriate rambling gear.
“I forgot my pants, the weekend is ruined,” he announces. I decide to sit down. This is going to take awhile.
After the better part of an hour, husband has arrived at the rational solution of repurposing his running gear into walking gear. He is now dressed in an orange sweat wicking tank top, black running shorts, hiking boots, gaiters, and backpack. He looks like a gay pumpkin. I of course assure him that he looks absolutely fine, and we are shortly trekking out the back of our cottage.