Trapped.
Three-and-a-half months ago.
Upon realising that I have been twatting about on the Inter-Course until the early hours of the morning yet again, I decide it may be wise to turn the computer off and retire to bed.
As usual, I am not in the slightest bit sleepy, but have made some rather rash promises regarding by activities for the coming day. I should at least try and sleep.
Having had a shower some time previously, I am wearing only a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. No pants. The t-shirt is fine but the jeans are not fitting night attire. I cast about for something more suited to the lower regions.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not some Victorian sort who believes that sleeping with one’s undercarriage exposed is some form of degeneracy.
But the feeling when a small child creeps into the bed at God knows what hour and Little Dad is flopping about unrestrained is not one of well-being.
Ah. Upon the clothes-horse that does not in the slightest resemble a horse is a pair of my boxer shorts. Ideal.
I whip my jeans off, pausing only to be amused by the fact that I have no trousers on in the sitting-room before a Christmas tree, and begin pulling on my boxer shorts.
This proves problematic. They seem unusually tight and do not progress much higher than halfway up my calves.
I am now hopping about. With no trousers on. In front of a Christmas tree. There is some flapping.
Taking a closer look at my boxer shorts, I have something of a surprise.
They are not, in fact, boxer shorts. Nor or they mine.
I wonder how my nineteen-month-old Favourite Son would feel knowing that at two o’clock in the morning his half-naked Father could be found hopping around in front of a Christmas tree desperately trying to pull on a pair of Favourite Son’s trousers.
Personally, I felt rather uneasy.
I put my jeans back on. I am trapped. I do not know where alternative night-time attire would be located.
I cannot go to bed.
Upon realising that I have been twatting about on the Inter-Course until the early hours of the morning yet again, I decide it may be wise to turn the computer off and retire to bed.
As usual, I am not in the slightest bit sleepy, but have made some rather rash promises regarding by activities for the coming day. I should at least try and sleep.
Having had a shower some time previously, I am wearing only a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. No pants. The t-shirt is fine but the jeans are not fitting night attire. I cast about for something more suited to the lower regions.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not some Victorian sort who believes that sleeping with one’s undercarriage exposed is some form of degeneracy.
But the feeling when a small child creeps into the bed at God knows what hour and Little Dad is flopping about unrestrained is not one of well-being.
Ah. Upon the clothes-horse that does not in the slightest resemble a horse is a pair of my boxer shorts. Ideal.
I whip my jeans off, pausing only to be amused by the fact that I have no trousers on in the sitting-room before a Christmas tree, and begin pulling on my boxer shorts.
This proves problematic. They seem unusually tight and do not progress much higher than halfway up my calves.
I am now hopping about. With no trousers on. In front of a Christmas tree. There is some flapping.
Taking a closer look at my boxer shorts, I have something of a surprise.
They are not, in fact, boxer shorts. Nor or they mine.
I wonder how my nineteen-month-old Favourite Son would feel knowing that at two o’clock in the morning his half-naked Father could be found hopping around in front of a Christmas tree desperately trying to pull on a pair of Favourite Son’s trousers.
Personally, I felt rather uneasy.
I put my jeans back on. I am trapped. I do not know where alternative night-time attire would be located.
I cannot go to bed.
posted by Tired Dad at
4:24 pm
11 Comments:
I once went to the gym for a squash lesson to find to my horror that my shorts suddenly seemed very small and said 101 Dalmations and the label said age 6. I forced them on and full marks to Disney, they didnt rip but I was unable to bend over to pick up the ball.
Debster
That is a predicament. Nothing else.
omg, i have a stinking hangover and here i am, barely able to see but doing that "mustreadmustread" thing, tears rolling down my face ... a brilliant mustread! My headache thanks you!
You've been there for three and a half months? And no one noticed??
Debs: And looked very fetching too I imagine.
Clarissa: It was.
Shell: My admiration. I have never laughed with a hangover.
Beth: Oh very good. Hang on. It's the train mp3 lady! I read you! How odd.
Do you? That's the second time in a week somebody's said that - and I thought nobody did! I will be becoming shy.
I once put a leg in Carol's silk pj bottoms and collapsed on the bed after a particularly boozy night. I do not normally wear my wifes clothes as far as I remember.
Lack of sleep seems slightly preferable to the undignified humiliation of being discovered trying to pull on a pair of your child's trousers. Just don't blog about it, whatever you do.
Ah.
I'm sure when you son is a teen and brings a date home, it would be the right time to share this story with him.
flopping, flapping, hopping; hehe
but not a good enough reason not to go to bed
Beth: Don't.
Dinners: Do not lie to me.
M_G: Mmmm.
P.O: I don't even want to THINK about him as a teenager.
me: Looking back on it, I have to agree.
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