I sat in the steam room with an old man, and told him this story: I came to the club to swim. After I parked my car, I realized I had left my swimsuit home. Eighteen minutes later I returned to find that the pool was closed for emergency maintenance: the acidity wasn't right. I had to wait five minutes, but if I'd brought my swimsuit in the first place, I would have had to wait twenty.
"Let me tell you a swim story," the fellow said. "I came here to swim one day. I was coming out of the locker room, and I felt strange, some strange feeling in my skin. I couldn't place it, so I went on out into the swim complex. I got half-way to the pool, and people were yelling at me, 'Here, you can't do that, Hey, stop, go back!' I looked down ... I was naked. There were women there, too. I hurried back into the locker room."
Now I know what you're speculating. That second story really happened to the old man, not to me! I'm very careful not to be absentminded in that particular way, that's why his story resonates for me. Oh, what an embarrassment!