I sit at the bar at the Denver International Airport and watch Garth Brooks watch me drink a glass of wine. Apparently, he and I go way back and are closer than I thought. It’s nice to have a drinking buddy at the airport. Especially one that is such a good listener.

Why am I sitting alone with Garth drinking a glass of wine at the Denver International Airport?

Well, I’m waiting for my flight and it dawns on me that I have all the wrong clothes. Yup, everyone has a water bottle attached to their backpack. I don’t even have a backpack. Then they have a pillow either around their neck or jauntily off to the side. A pillow? No one told me that I was supposed to bring my own linens to the airport. See, I didn’t know there was a dress code. Ever since 5th grade, I’ve been just a step or two behind high fashion. It’s my gift.

And, then, there’s the bathroom issue. Listen, I was raised a Catholic. We don’t have bodily functions. Since people are not supposed to have bodily functions, why are all these people joining me in the bathroom at the airport? This is making me uncomfortable. I may never go to the bathroom again.

Could everyone please leave? Thank you.

Finally, there was the incident on the way to the airport.

My wife and I stopped at a Denver Starbucks for a latte and chat before I left town. We sat at a table and talked as old married people do — I aggressively defended the position that I’m not a dope and my wife patiently set out the clear rationale as to why that category best defines the real me.

Thirty-eight years of marriage. She’s so head-over-heels for me.

I glance out the window and see a homeless couple scouring the parking lot for dropped money. As they make their way towards the busy street, I see an item of clothes left outside the door of the Starbucks. They must have walked right past it. Or maybe it dropped off the layer of rags they are wearing. A sad little pile left in front of the door.

As my wife and I leave, stepping carefully around the abandoned clothes like it was a dead squirrel squashed on the street, my wife suddenly exclaims: “Is that YOUR underwear?”

It is my underwear, folks. Yup, my green boxers are sitting in a clump in front of the Starbucks. For the last hour.

Okay, maybe my wife’s “dope” argument is not that farfetched. When I switched out of my dirty work clothes and put on my jeans, there must have been a spare pair of underwear stuck up the leg. And there they are. My underwear. In front of Starbucks.

And then it also dawned on me — my clothes were rejected by the homeless couple. They walked right on past. Not good enough to make the cut. This was a layer they didn’t want.

As they love to say in law school, “Who’s ox just got gored?”

Although, my youngest adult/child, when told this story, asked, with some mortification: “Did you pick them up?”

I’m afraid so.

Unsurprisingly, I am now sitting at a bar in the airport talking with Garth. Alone. With all my underwear in the right location, no water bottle attached to a nonexistent backpack, and having successfully found an empty bathroom.

And, yes, Garth, I will take another glass.

Joe