Sweatpants and Roseanne Barr

I hate sweat pants. There's no cruder evidence that you're an unapologetic housewife. Not the June Cleaver kind - that would demand a button down blouse, a skirt that swishes when you're pulling the cookies out of the oven, and a waist the size of my pinky. No, I'm talking more in the genre of Roseanne Barr. 

So I had a Roseanne Barr kind of day. I wore my grey lounge pants (the kind with a stretchy waistband which allows for generous cookie consumption) and last summer's VBS t-shirt (my name inscribed in puff paint). I must look like I'm throwing in the towel. I've completely lost touch with my blow dryer, and even my $40 concealer from Mario Tricoci feels overworked and underpaid. 

I look forward to the weekends when Ryan is home. I might get a chance to linger in the shower, shave my legs, and scrub my heels. I'll hopefully get an unhurried cup of coffee and a few quiet minutes alone in the morning. I'll find time to sit at my desk and make sense of the paper that's been piling there throughout the week. I might even read the paper and put on lipstick. 

These are the small graces in my day.