I've chosen today to focus on a torture I have not yet subjected myself to: pants. Not that I'm not content to exist in the world of lumpy, frumpy pajama bottoms, but they're not so much socially acceptable. At the hospital last Tuesday, I whimpered to Nick that I felt like such a schmuck going out in public looking like I did, and I was secretly on the look out for a What Not to Wear camera catching me at my worst. He grabbed my hand and leaned down to speak into my ear, "You're in a hospital." Right. That changes things.

But, sooner or later, I will reenter the real world...and I've got to retrain myself to accept that my bottom half must be adequately clothed, I've just got to...because I don't live in Canada. I walked around today with my legs spread widely while I wobbled all stooped over like a bowlegged Quasimodo. I don't think you quite get my plight: denim. was. touching. my. butt. Have you seen the end of Braveheart? They're torturing this guy to death and he cries, "FREEDOM!" Yeah, totally get that now.

I'm proud to say that I kept my jeans on all day long, even when I wanted to give up...because, if for no other reason, I get to see Anna this weekend at her housewarming party. I haven't seen dear Anna in nearly five years and I'd hate for her to think I've become an exhibitionist. (Or, rather, than I can't turn it off.)