Late last night I curled up on the love seat and watched the weather channel's tornado chasing marathon. The closing credits ran every half hour; then, the next episode would begin. Midnight arrived and yet I remained fixated. I so want to be a storm chaser.
The next thing I knew it was 4:30 and the cat was waking me with a yowling complaint. I got up, turned off the TV, and opened the patio door before grabbing the warm afghan and snuggling back down in my chair. I slept there until 8:30. In my turtle neck and jeans.
This odd confession is brought to you by Gattina - Writers Cramps, the host for today's Fun Monday.
She is curious about our usual Sunday morning attire.
Last night's lead in to this morning was just a fluke. I am the quintessential flannel pajama girl.
Most Sunday morning you'll find me searching for my glasses, the newspaper, and my coffee mug. I do know, however, where my PJ's are --because I'm wearing them.
I can remember wearing little lace-edged flannel sets as a child. I wore them until the lace began to disintegrate and the buttons popped. And then I wore them more.
My attachment to my PJ's hasn't altered as I've aged. I wear them until they fall right into the rag bin.
If you have a Sunday morning lounging tradition - wear them over to Writer's Cramps and shake them loose on Mr. Linky.