So on most days around this time, one of us would be on our way to pick up Kaitlyn from daycare so that we'd have a little family time before dinner. Maybe go for a walk around the neighborhood. Maybe blow bubbles.
But today, oh glorious day, Kaitlyn is in Mebane. You see, YaYa and Pop-Pop are playing babysitter tonight, leaving Michelle and I on our lonesome to head to a leave-the-rugrats-at-home adults-only Halloween party.
It's a toga party, as if you couldn't tell by the large image to your right. Now, I have a confession to make: I never made it to a toga party in college. Never had a crazy frat at the podunk small college I attended that threw such parties. The nearby university probably had them, but I never went. You see, my reasoning for not toga-ing (?!?) is the same reason I don't feel I'd be the best person to showcase ink: I'm a skinny bitch.
No, really. Like Ichabod Crane skinny. Olive Oyl skinny. I truly am all skin and bone. Not that I haven't tried gaining weight before. Just melts right off me. Don't worry, ladies: I'm a douche, I know. My wife tells me that every time I talk about anything weight-related.
So when it comes to putting some tats on my arm or wearing an outfit that supposedly "showcases" my physique, I usually pass. I mean, I don't like looking at my skinny ass; sure as hell know no one else does. Unfortunately, I don't have a choice. The hosts have laid down the law: No toga, no party.
Therefore, I must attempt to hold my head high and send off the aura that I look friggin' hot in a toga. Image is everything, the saying goes. Granted the person who said that is now saying his hair was fake, but I digress.
So in my head, I'm looking like this:
When we all know I probably look more like this:
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