Yoga Pants

It's a stretch for sure,
a thin fabric covering
the essence of my
desires.

Okay, for those of you that read yesterday's "thank you" blog, you get the joke. I also really should have done my laundry.

It's Friday and as you know, I tend to imagine Friday as a beautiful blonde woman stumbling home drunk after a long night of partying. I mean, she's pretty awesome, but her priorities are completely messed up. She never wears yoga pants oddly enough. I usually picture her in some sort of 1940's evening dress. In fact, I think Friday looks a lot like Betty Hutton or Lauren Bacall. Which in turn makes me look like the Tex Avery wolf.

But that's just me. 

Fridays always seem to have so much seething potential under the surface. Sure we have to get through the day, but the night seems like it can go on forever. It's what love songs are made for. If you have a lover of course. If you don't then you're out on the town, drinking, looking for that woman that will completely change your life for the better. Or quite possibly make it worse. You never know with Friday night. 

Historically, Friday night ends up at a 24 hour diner at four o'clock in the morning mumbling something about the genetics of people who are lactose intolerant to Saturday morning, who really just can't give a crap because he's thinking about where Friday is going to sleep and if she's wearing panties. 

Friday doesn't care what Saturday thinks. In fact, she's quite carefree and that's why all the other days seem to hate her. It's probably why she drinks so much. 

I hope she's good to me tonight. I like her company. Maybe I'll convince her to put on some yoga pants.