Boy Scout, My Butt; Or, It Pays to Be Prepared

In a world rife – and fraught!  Let us not forget fraught! – with countless details, any one of which could be the exploding gas tank on the roadside emergency that is your typical workday morning, I’ve changed tack.
I shall no longer pull the next morning’s outfit together the night before.  No longer will you see the skirt, top, jacket/sweater and accompanying jewelry hanging, nightly, in preparation of Early-Morning Pearl’s 6:00 A.M. Stumble.
Nope.
From now on, I’m prepping for a whole week.
How’s that for optimism?
I shall continue to believe that I have a reason to dress for work until specifically requested to not return.
So far, this has worked for me for dang-near 30 years now.
Lucky me.
So that’s what I did Sunday night:  I prepared myself.  Laid ‘er all out.  Five outfits. 
Looked like I knew what I was doing.
I congratulated myself quite aggressively that first morning, called myself all kinds of pleasantly chummy things.  “Good going, old girl!  Old bean!  Old sock!  Look at you, all prepared!”  I enthused whilst brushing my teeth.  “You really have a good head on your shoulders, don’t you?  And might I commend you on your continued daily use of Listerine.  Not like that Oh-I-promise-to-floss-every-day load you gave the dentist last time we were there.  You really should take more–“ 
It is at this point that I cut me off. 
Frankly, Early-Morning Pearl doesn’t have time for that kind of crap.
And so there I was.  Monday’s outfit, right down to the heels.
Man, but I’m good. 
Roughly an hour later, I run into Robin. 
“I love that jacket,” she says.
I twirl around, raise my arms, all fashion model-y.  “This ol’ thing?” I chirp.
She frowns.  “Just how old is it, anyway?”
I stop.  “What?”  I twirl again, only this time the twirl is not so much fashion model as it is dog-chasing-tail.  “What’s going on?”
“Well,” she says tactfully, “looks like you’ve ripped out most of the right sleeve…”
I pull my jacket off, cast a horrified eye on the decimated seam connecting the right sleeve to the body of the garment.
“Bruce Banner,” Robin says sorrowfully.
I concur.  “Never borrow your jacket to a superhero.”
Does this mean I won’t wear tomorrow’s outfit, a jaunty skirt and fetching top with a Nehru collar?
Nope.  But it does mean that the sewing kit I’ve had in a desk drawer for almost 10 years now finally came out Monday morning.
One does like to be prepared, after all.