Dude, where's my pants?
Sometimes in the early mornings, I enjoy coffee and wi-fi at a Starbucks I dub, “The place for people who have done everything right in life.”
This is a mystical Montgomery County bistro wher all young men are aspiring masters of the universe and all older men have already arrived. No haircut costs under $120 and no stroller costs under $800. Every young mother’s belly is perfectly flat and every little toddling Chet and Isabelle is perfectly behaved. No wayward runners of snot or drool bespoils the overstuffed leather chairs here.
Why, you may ask, does this Starbucks let me in the doors? To keep it real - and also because I spend an obscene amount of my disposible income there (yes, even on the $3.45 yogurt parfaits).
Yet this morning, in this bastion of MoCo perfection, I saw something so very wrong it made me gasp.
A man in running tights… un-shrouded by shorts or a long t-shirt.
I nearly choked on my venti fair-trade blend. Too much information for a weekday morning. And the man seemed blissfully oblivious to what he was subjecting us all to, nochalantly chatting with his friend and stirring his mocha latte. While he was sporting the springtime equivalent of a Speedo.
Yet, in the face of such horror, my eyes were opened.
As you gather supplies for the survivors in Burma/Myanmar and China, don’t forget that crisis exists here, too, in our own backyard. Send that extra long t-shirt or pair of gym shirts over to Montgomery County.
A jogger in need will thank you...and so will those around him.