My husband came home from his most recent golf tournament with two bags of new clothes for The Love of His Life. That’s me in case you were wondering. (Thanks, Honey!)
In one of the bags was an item of clothing I have been wishfully dreaming of which I thought I might never own.
White Jeans. (Cue dreamy harp music.)
Now, finally, at long last I can be the epitome of style wearing my white jeans around town.
And my legs will look long and lean in those jeans. And there will never be Cheetoh, chocolate pudding, or booger-y hand prints on my hinelary region, or anywhere else for that matter.
The jeans will remain crisply pressed and pristine in their blinding whiteness because I live in a magical land where unicorns who poop rainbow sprinkles follow me wherever I go, flying about my head…
Wait a minute… (Harp music stops abruptly.)
Do unicorns fly?
Oh well. It was a nice fantasy.