Last week, as I was getting off BART, I noticed that my shirt was unbuttoned down to well below my bra ("Like one of those crazy menopause ladies?" Todd asked me later), and the bad thing is, or one of the bad things, I had no idea how long I'd been sitting there, hanging out like that.

My peepers are super bad, and really I need my glasses to do almost anything serious, such as read things on a white board or identify people or drive. Even so, I sometimes prefer the blurred version of the world that I get when I don't wear my glasses. It's nice and fuzzy and flat. Certainly the blotched, wrinkled, jiggling me I see in the mirror in the morning, or the floor of my bathroom all covered with cat and lady hairs, is a lot nicer without any magnification.

I bet if I'd had my glasses on, though, I would have noticed whether I was getting an unusual number of thumbs-ups that day on San Francisco's rapid transit. But since I was "going fuzzy" (like "going commando" only not regarding underpants), I have no idea how long I'd been sitting there, essentially topless. Which, I guess, is actually maybe good news.

The best thing, though, before I even got on BART, when I was still walking from my apartment to the station, I'd noticed that one of the buttons of my pants was undone. So, sneakily, I redid it, using only one hand to avoid calling too much street attention to myself. But what do you want to bet that I was already topless at that point?

Like someone worrying over a chocolate stain on the arm of a deck chair as the whole ship sinks.

Or one of those slow security guards who yells, "Hey! A lizard!" and points at a cute, little 6-inch reptile as the other security guard, the skinny one, drops his coffee mug and runs devil-fast away because 800-foot GODZILLA's huge head is filling the big picture window right behind the dumb, chubby lizard-pointer.

Or like the time I was toasting marshmallows and let my stick get a little too close to the fire. My marshmallow burst into flames and instead of blowing it out like a normally evolved person, I shook it so pieces of burning marshmallow flew everywhere. I looked down and there was a little speck of flame on my pants and I started screaming, "My pants are on fire! MY PANTS!" And then my dad ran over, juiced with parental flight-or-flight, and threw a towel over my head, completely bypassing my pants. Because forget the little squiggle of flame on my leg, my hair was on fire. My hair was on fire!

But don't go running off with horrible bald, burnt, little Evany visions dancing in your head. Because if you know me at all, you're well aware that I have a lot of hair. A lot. As in just go ahead and double whatever volume of hair you're imagining right now. I'm, we're, talking the kind of mane that prompts hairdressers to call their coworkers over to cop a feel. "That's going to wear right through your scissors!" they scream and scream.

So don't worry. I had so much hair, the damage done by the the marshmallow napalming was almost impossible to spot. Even if you were wearing your glasses.

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)