“To tell you that story, first I have to tell you this one.”

I heard that in a movie once, and thought that line was pretty funny. Yet as with so many things in life, it isn’t all that funny when it applies to you.

I had a bad day on Wednesday. But to tell you that story, I have to tell you this one. I’ve mentioned before that I may not be the most tech-savvy person in the office (as our IT guy Jamie guffaws loudly at that understatement), but I know when something isn’t working.

On Tuesday, my computer mouse stopped working. It’s wireless, which must mean there’s some sensor somewhere that I can’t see. I went to our storage room — where old, beat-up pieces of equipment go to die because someone is certain there’s some use left in it — to get a mouse with a cord. There were two. One didn’t work and the other was broken. I used someone else’s who was off work that day and figured I would deal with it later.

On Wednesday, I went in to work and the situation hadn’t rectified itself as I had hoped. So I started my day with a trip to the store to buy a mouse. Turns out it’s tougher than you might think to find one with a cord. I got one, went back to work and got started with my day.

But then, because I can’t leave well enough alone, I picked up the cordless mouse and started to fiddle with it, hoping again for some electronic miracle. Not the best idea, apparently, because it connected to someone else’s computer and started wreaking havoc. Whoops. I’m not entirely sure how that’s even possible. But I digress.

I am often troubled with pain in my fingers from arthritis, so I got special “copper infused” gloves that do a pretty good job of getting me through the day.

So by late in the afternoon, I find myself walking outside wearing one arthritis glove, my reading glasses instead of my sunglasses that I thought I had grabbed, and carrying some random pieces of paper. I got a weird look and some catcalls from a passing motorist. When I started back inside, I noticed my reflection. Some of my hair was in a ponytail, and much of the rest looked like wild horses had trampled through it. I have on one glove, am squinting through my reading glasses and carrying a small change purse and some random papers.

I guess that, along with so many other things, is a good reason why I’m not on television news.

As I pondered that, sitting at my computer fiddling with my new mouse, I started thinking about the way people dress.

Never one to put on airs — since I have no airs to put on, I suppose — I have never really given much thought to what one wears. My wardrobe is about comfort more than style, as I am sure is readily apparent to those who take note of that sort of thing.

But when I was at the store buying my mouse, the young woman in front of me was tugging on the legs of her shorts, ostensibly to make them longer. That, too, got me thinking. When I was in high school, we weren’t allowed to wear shorts. When that ban was lifted, there was a length requirement. This was the 80s, and “jams” were a thing (Google it, young ‘uns). A friend of mine was sent home for wearing shorts that were too short, yet they belonged to her very Catholic and rather proper mother.

To say Mrs. Welch was unhappy with the teacher’s call was an understatement. And that led me to remember the short “Daisy Dukes” a young woman was wearing in the pharmacy recently as I was waiting for a prescription. It wasn’t the shorts that caught my eye; it was her knee socks with profanity emblazoned across the backs in tall letters.

I am all for goofy socks. And I might wear ones with profanity on them, but only if I knew no one would see it. Goofy socks are a little secret to wear in an otherwise serious day. They aren’t exactly a secret when one’s footwear is inviting readers to do something anatomically impossible and not appropriate for public.

As I write this, I am wearing a pair of blue and white polka dotted socks with the Disney character Stitch on them. He’s eating pizza. Yesterday, my socks had sloths on them.

Now one may wonder what point I am trying to make here. Alas, there isn’t one. I had a bad day, my mind wandered, and I thought readers might enjoy a peek inside my cluttered head.

You’re welcome.

(Marcie Schellhammer is the Era’s assistant managing editor.)