Everything about the day was typical.

Same ol’ class schedule. Same ol’ ridiculous line to… Everything about the day was typical.

Same ol’ class schedule. Same ol’ ridiculous line to use the ATM, and naturally, in keeping with the Pittsburgh norm — it was raining.

I was trudging through my typical day just as I always do. Running ever so slightly late, ruining the bottoms of my jeans in those unavoidable puddles all over Forbes, I was trying to figure out if I had managed to neglect completing any assignments that might be due that day because of my decision to favor Nick at Night’s evening dose of quality television over any academic task.

After finishing up my daily campus business, entirely satisfied with the fact that I’d attended 100 percent of the day’s classes — please, keep the cheering to a minimum — I headed home with a master plan to lay down for a nap that would rival Rip Van Winkle’s slumber.

On my typical walk through scenic South Oakland, I began to ponder how predictable my routine was becoming. It certainly lacked the luster of Paris Hilton’s club-hopping schedule and wasn’t nearly as glamorous as the collegiate lifestyle of the Olsen twins.

Looking down at my now-drenched sweatshirt, I wondered why I hadn’t applied to the University of San Diego.

Ready to wallow in self-pity brought on by the remnants of Seasonal Affective Disorder, I looked up and saw something that was completely out of the ordinary — even for a city that puts coleslaw and French fries on a perfectly suitable sandwich.

Headed in my direction was a young man, dressed rather nicely: khaki pants, dress shirt, book bag in hand. No, this is not a tale of love at first sight to kick off the first day of spring, or any other worthwhile subject matter.

Dude in question happened to be sporting a rather interesting floatation device, which is quite peculiar considering that Noah hasn’t started construction on another ark yet.

Encircling his waist was a bright yellow, duck-shaped inner tube — the kind one would generally find a four year old using to keep herself afloat in the local kiddie pool.

My first reaction was: How should I react? Dare I ask this gentleman what the deal was? My money was on the possibility that he foolishly predicted that Syracuse had a fighting chance in the NCAA tourney and his brackets had taken a severe beating over the weekend. Throwing in the towel and accepting defeat, I imagined he’d succumbed to the terms of his buddies’ bet.

Maybe it was a stupid fraternity prank or an effort to catch the ladies’ attention. Be that the case, he succeeded, but did not quite achieve the intrigue he was aiming for.

Whatever the situation may have been, I didn’t ever find out. I balked at initiating conversation with my fellow pedestrian and have since been left bewildered as to what the hell the guy was thinking.

I should have saved myself the torture, because for once, I’d encountered a truly unique situation over the course of my ever-consistent daily routine, but was unsuccessful in investigating the cause for such absurdity.

Still the owner of a vast collection of ’90s grunge CDs, it’s clear that I’m the kind of person who cannot just let something go. The array of possible explanations for Duck Man’s wardrobe haunted me for the remainder of the afternoon. Like that incredibly irritating jingle from the Burger King “Bacon Cheddar Ranch” commercial, different scenarios repeated in my mind incessantly.

I should have asked him what the hell he was thinking, if for no other reason than to spare my sanity. Despite the afternoon of useless thoughts, I appreciated the abnormality of the guy. The predictable world could use a few more Duck Men. In an era of Abercrombie-clad sheep, something as simple as an odd bird is a welcome sight to jazz up a boring day.

Colleen Bayus has yet to pick up this month’s issue of Vogue. If inner tubes are all the rage — she apologizes for not knowing better. E-mail her at [email protected].