Brunch seemed like a lovely idea at the time: a leisurely stroll into town, a cup of coffee while waiting for a table at Beau Monde and a round of crepes at Philadelphia’s premier French bistro (just in time for Philadelphia’s International Festival of Arts, I might add, the city-wide celebration of all things Parisian).
I’m very into Paris—not as a city, but as a concept—and I’m very into brunch—not as an everyday thing but as a weekend treat—but here it is 8:30am and I’m not even dressed yet. My date will be here in half an hour and I’m still sitting at my laptop in my robe with nary a scrap of clothing or make up on my person and I have no idea what I’m going to wear because originally we were going to go on a picnic but then the weather decided to go all April-showers on us so we switched to brunch instead. (Obviously I can’t very well wear the same thing to brunch that I’d planned to wear to a picnic, now can I?)
In the time it’s taken me to chronicle this morning’s mishap, six minutes have gone by. It is not 8:36 and if our first date is of any indication, he’s going to be early.
This means I have approximately seven and half minutes to stop being naked.