As a general rule I am apposed to the prancing around of an individual in sweats (decorative pajama pants are even worse.) Mostly I feel like putting on a pair of jeans is never difficult, especially if ones makeup is done or hair is articulately coifed.
So having that background picture a lazy me on Sunday veging in front of the boob-tube; only to get a call to rescue a broken cared Marianne, who was on her way to have dinner with her boyfriend’s family. We hurried over in our sweats, because things like rescuing can be done in sweats. Dinner at Johnny Carino’s when you and your significant other have matching pajama pants that resemble that of Classic Skating’s carpet; should not necessarily become a habit.
Anyhoodle, we were in the garage of Little America when nature called. Not so much called as yelled, screamed and demanded that I find a facility as soon as humanly possible. That’s when I needed to run into that hotel where people dress up to go to Sunday brunch and the bell hops literally have tiny bell hop outfits, to use the restroom. A restroom that had tiny rose bud wall paper, smelled of baby skin and grossly contrasted my Sunday veg state of grease and exponential amounts of Pesto and parmesan chicken.
All I am saying is now I realize, don’t judge.
Perhaps that boy in class knew his pants would catch on fire, and he would need the elastic waste instead of the difficult hardware of a zipper and button, to remove them quickly.