The hostess scrutinized me with a long hard look as I lurched in the restaurant door, correcting my trajectory just enough to miss crashing into the check-in podium. As she led me tottering along to the table I got a couple of curious glances. Once seated, I took off my glasses...OMG I still had on the "car only" bashed and battered pair I try to remember never to wear in public. Pranged and twisted, lenses scratched and barely hanging together, these glasses work for driving but they look like a joke! Sitting askew on my face they authenticate my current drunk bag-lady look.
For a fleeting moment, I thought perhaps the glances might have been admiring ones aimed at my butt, the subject of some recent attention (goslings on the rear) by fellow book club members*. Of course, I've lived long enough to know better. Apparently the neural connection all of us jack-asses have in common - the one which clouds over actual facts with unreliable information (known world-wide as having one's head up one's butt) is still operational.