Lazy Gun

I am wearing THE most ridiculous of skirts. And trust me, I know my skirts. Well, I darn well should, considering that I have seventeen of them.

Yeh, I know.

It's a bit obsessive.

I can't help it though. Where ever I go, skirts catch my eye. And I think, "Ahh, now that is prettyful. That is a skirt that I want". And then I remember that I already have six skirts almost identical to it. Anyone who has ever been shopping with me, or indeed, been near shops with me, will know that I point out every single long, flowy skirt that we happen to pass, and express my desire for it. Yes, I KNOW I'm annoying.

But, back to business.

This skirt is the QUEEN of ridiculousness. It is floor length (yes, that's ankle length, to you non-short people out there) and denim. And because of its exceedingly long longness, I am unable to walk in it. Well, that's a slight lie - I can walk in it, but my steps are teeny weeny itsy bitsy baby ones. I tried walking to the post office today, and it took me three years to even get down the front path. By the time I'd reached the wall, I'd already turned thirty, married the dim-witted, but nice-at-heart boy from down the road, and given birth to my third child. It was at this point that I decided that it was high-time that I hitched up the offending skirt. I did so, and shuffled down the road to the post office, my skirt making noises that can only be associated with that of a hurricane.

It still took me about 50 years to actually reach the post office, by which time I'd been given odd looks from the postman, some scary Heathsider girls, and even the mad barber, who seems to have a mini crush on me. Eww. Old men.

And now, it is raining. In a torrential fashion. Meaning that I will have to change out of my skirt. I think God is trying to tell me that I shouldn't wear this skirt.