I took some pants to the dry cleaners last Wednesday, and I was given a pink pickup ticket for Friday evening. I’m sure you’ve done this before.
If you’re like me, you guard that ticket with your life.
I’ve played through the scenario in which I show up to pick up my dry cleaning without the ticket, and it looks something like this:
Dry Cleaning Lady (looks up from her mass-market copy of Twilight: Adapted from the Motion Picture Twilight): Sure, can I have your ticket?
Me (fidgeting): Um, that’s the thing…I lost the ticket.
DCL: You lost the ticket.
Me: Yes. I’m so sorry. Can I just show you my ID?
DCL (rolls her eyes): Your ID is useless here. The only way we can know that they’re your pants is if you have your ticket.
Me: Do you have other “Stegmaiers” in your database?
DCL: I can’t tell you that without your ticket.
Me (starting to sweat profusely): What if I describe the pants to you in perfect detail before you show them to me? That way you’d know that they’re mine.
DCL: How do I know this isn’t a setup? You could have the real Stegmaier bound and gagged in your car.
Me: What if I try them on? You’ll know they’re mine if they fit me. Like Cinderella.
DCL: You could have had plastic surgery to match the real Stegmaier’s waistline and leg length.
Me (starting to doubt if I’m the real Jamey Stegmaier): I will pay you a thousand dollars for my pants.
Me: I will lay you across this oddly sticky counter and make sweet, sweet love to you until the sun rises tomorrow in exchange for pants.
DCL (sizes me up skeptically): Not going to happen.
Me (producing a spot-on Photoshopped duplication of the ticket from my pocket): Oh! Silly me! What was I thinking? Here’s the ticket!
DCL (runs the ticket through a hologram scanner and one of those machines that blows puffs of air on you at the airport): This is a fake.
Me: I give up. Have a good day.
I’m sure it’s something like that. I just don’t want to chance it.