This morning I went to drop off our daughter at her preschool. As I was searching the courtyard for the coffee, an elderly woman approached me. She asked something, but I was so intent on my coffee hunt that I did not hear her the first time. Then she asked again, a little bit louder: “Excuse me. Are you a custodian?”

I mean, I know I end up doing a lot of mopping, moving and other miscellaneous custodial work around the church, but is it that obvious, even to the casual observer? Quickly, she realized that I wasn’t and she smiled again and said, “Oh, you’re a parent!”

Maybe it was the gloves I’ve been wearing lately. Because our church is extremely cold during the week (well, cold if you’re a completely Southern California acclimatized person like me — did I really grow up in Michigan?), and because my hands are cold most of the time anyways, I went out to the local drugstore and picked up a pair of two dollar magic gloves. The magic quickly wore off, however, when I realized that I couldn’t type with those gloves on. So I did what any reasonable person would do and I cut off the fingertips. While these aren’t Grizzly Paw weightlifting gloves, Patrick Swayze Roadhouse-style motorcycle gloves, or awesome 80s flashbacks, my low budget fix keeps me warm as I type away (and mop the hallways and move tables, etc.).

Actually, my goal is to be like John Bender, Judd Nelson’s erstwhile criminal of The Breakfast Club. Such a range of emotion — subtle rebellion sowing, righteous defiance, earring-switching sensitivity, Friday casual, straight up kicking it, victorious anti-hero. — and all of this based on the gloves. Not even Principal Vernon, with his confusing I love rock-n-roll but the next time I have to come in here I’m cracking skulls hand gestures could stop this force of nature.

Yes, that is what I’ll keep telling myself. It was the gloves.