So there I am, at the dealership, ready to whip off my jacket and pull out my checkbook, when I suddenly remember, as the zipper goes down, that I still have my pajamas on. What is wrong with me! Wait, I know. I’m a writer. I have no time for things like putting on real clothes.

That December day I was driving home from the grocery store, mentally lost in a plotline as one of my characters moved through a scene, and Mr. Bailey, my salesman, rang my cell. Hair in a ponytail, the only real errand I had planned to run that day was for groceries. This being necessary as my whiney-ass family was hungry and there was no food in the house.

“Merry Christmas Mr. Potter!” I replied to his greeting. He good-naturedly guffawed to the Capra-esque play with his name and got down to business. He had a car. He’d had my criteria and had been looking.

Damn. That was good news and bad. The good news was I desperately needed a new car. The bad, it was another distraction to deal with it. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“But I need to leave in an hour. I thought maybe you could come in and take it for a drive tomorrow?”

Pause. “Twenty minutes. I’ll have the title to the other car and my checkbook. Can we get it done?”

Pause. “Sure. I’ll have it ready.”

No time. I called my husband and gave him instructions. “Stop what you’re going. Get the title and my checkbook on the kitchen counter. Be ready to unload the groceries and drive to the dealer when I need you.” This last instruction because he would need to sign and transfer the title. I apparently have nothing in my name.

Moving on. My husband, a very good sport, did just as instructed. So sure enough, twenty minutes later I plopped down in front of Mr. Bailey, ready to close the deal and get this tedious problem off my to-do list.

That’s when I realized my mistake. Teddy bears adorned my chest. Obviously a p.j. top, there was no mistaking it for anything else. Not even a bra. I’d run through the grocery at a clip holding on to my usual delusions–that I was most likely invisible in a fast-moving public venue.

But face to face, with Mr. Bailey, was a different thing. I had the good sense to yank my jacket closed, but he might have seen something. In the privacy of the finance office, I revealed my indiscretion to my husband, who only rolled his eyes.

In hindsight, I contend there is nothing seriously wrong with this scenario. I am a writer. I’ll just use it.