So Blarney is back from her work trip to Seattle. And that makes me sad.
Wait. Let me clarify that statement. I’m happy Blarney’s back because I missed her.
However, her return means only one thing: I have to start wearing clothes. More specifically, I have to start wearing pants. (Lorraine, I know you feel me on this one.)
Every day after work, I exercise, shower, towel off, air dry (Crap! No more nekkid dashes from the shower to the bedroom.)
while dancing around the room to Can’t Touch This, and then throw on pajamas.
Unless Kiefer and I are going out for dinner…then I have to get dressed again. In real clothes. Twice in one day. The things I do for love.
Which brings me to the difference between real pants and fake pants.
Blarney (calling up the stairs): Thoughtsy, so-and-so is coming over in 5 minutes.
Me: I guess I need to put real pants on.
Blarney: Silence. But I’m pretty sure she was thinking, Real pants? What is she wearing upstairs? Are her pants painted on? Are they invisible pants? Is she wearing MC Hammer pants? I have just moved in with a crazy woman.
Me (reading Blarney’s mind): As opposed to fake pants. Meaning I should cover all of my jiggly bits…entirely.
Everyone has their own fake pants. My fake pants happen to be super comfy pajamas shorts with super cute prints…except they are super short and super expose my super jiggly thighs, which no one (besides Kiefer and Blarney) should be subjected to.
Got it? Super.
Do you have fake pants?