Don't you hate when you receive flowers at work and you can't find your pants? I know I do.
When I finally greeted Thursday afternoon's delivery, my sweatpants were on inside out and backwards, the tag gleaming like a belt buckle and pockets dangling tastefully to the sides.
"Are you John?" said the woman bearing flowers, a bit incredulously for my tastes.
I rummaged through the house for a tip, finally handing the woman $5. She was stunned.
"Wow, thank you!" She looked up. "No one ever thinks to tip."
"That's because you usually deliver to women," I snapped as I signed. Why did years of watching women not reach for checks choose that moment, of all moments, to bubble to the surface? I do not know. But I will never forget the contorted look on that delivery woman's face as she returned to her car, both grateful and offended.