Every now-and-then, my clothes fall in the dog’s water dish. Since there’s one in the master bathroom and another in the kitchen, the likelihood is reasonable. There’s a certain charm to this event, like holding a secret, but there are rules. If the sweater or shirt gets too wet, I won’t wear it, but if the item’s retrieved fast enough, I’m out the door. I can honestly say this is a subject I’ve never queried friends about. Some, I know, would find it amusing; others, not so much.

We humans are all about show. In the 1950s, we had a family friend who wore her fur coat camping. My own mother wore pantyhose in her sleeping bag and swept the tent with her purse around her neck. A couple of years ago I buddied up to a charming elderly woman at a Christmas party full of strangers. As she was leaving, I commented on the exquisite coat she wrapped up in. “Oh, thank you,” she replied. “It’s unborn calf skin.”

Tomorrow I’m wearing basic black.