Here I am, back in the land of the living after sleeping a total of sixteen hours yesterday and struggling through a low-grade fever. I’m still not in top form, but it’s nice to be able to get out of bed and perambulate, y’know?

In fact, I got dressed at noon and wandered into the kitchen to heat up some soup.

“Nice pants,” said my husband. “I haven’t seen those before.”

“I got them from Ceri,” I said. “They don’t fit her any more.”

He looked slightly startled. I’m not sure why; maybe it was a new-ish concept to him. It’s a girl thing, I guess, to swap clothes if you don’t use them any more. Whatever. I like these pants. They’re comfy. And being the height that I am, low-slung hip-riding pants designed for an “average person” (as if there is any such thing) means that the waistband actually sits at waist height on me, so I’m doubly happy. (By extension, of course, it means an “average” regular fit chafes my rib-cage. I’m sort of glad the low-slung trend is still around so I can proceed to take advantage of it.)

Who decides what “average” is, anyway? Taking two extremes and making a pair of pants to fit a mythical person in-between the two simply means that the clothes fit no one.

Evidently I’m still too out of it to function in the real world. I think I’ll go back to bed.