Unintended Consequences

I don't know if it's a law, but there's this thing called unintended consequences. That's where you do something with the intention of fixing something and wind up breaking something else. You know, like when you send food to a starving country and the farmers in the next country over go out of business.

I've got this problem where I have to wear a shirt with pockets in order to carry my glasses and a pen or pencil, and then they're always falling out when I stoop over any way. And if I try putting them in my pants pocket they get broken and bent. So this rules out wearing most T-shirts when it's warm. So I'm thinking about how handy the overalls that the old men wore must have been. Organizers in their own cosmos so to speak. A place for everything including your chaw. Not that I chew.

I haven't had a pair of overalls since I was a kid so I went down to the dry goods store to look at them the other day. I really like my Carhart pants and their version of the overall is pretty cool with the reinforced knees and tan color. That duck cloth has proven to wear well too. But they didn't have my size and besides, they were fifty bucks. So I went a counter or two down and found the Brazos brand knock-offs for half the price. I'm in a devil may care mood that day, so what the heck, I buy me a pair of those and a few boxes of ammunition for good measure. (You can't have too much ammunition on hand, besides, it's better than gold in hard times.)

Well, I spent about nine hours in the shop yesterday (finally finished that saw bench I started and built the little bride a wall and doorway for her shop) and marveled at how handy my pencil was and how comfortable and breezy I felt. But towards six o'clock I started to become painfully aware of a little unintended consequence that never in a hundred years would have crossed my mind: apparently all the movement under the bib of those cosmic organizers abraded the ends off of the nipples on my chest. I didn't need much of an excuse to change out of my saw-dusty clothes last night because my man-boobs were on fire.

Barely able to even wear a shirt this morning, my little bride was teasing me, "do we need to buy you a bra?" Well, no, but I may need to tape them or put bandaids or something on them next time... Actually, my theory is that if I had worn a plain T-shirt under them instead of one with a big silk-screened logo on it, I might have been okay. Sometime after I heal up, I'll give that a try.