Saturday Night Fever

Okay, we're not talking John Travolta here. I have a fever, or a hot flash, it's getting harder to tell them apart. And it's Saturday Night. I will not be donning a white polyester suit--too hot: see post on pantyhose because polyester anything fits into that category--nor a dark shirt with collars that are so pointy that you can cut a piece of cake with them, use them to drill a hole in a steel plate or pick your teeth after eating corn on the cob (or defend yourself should someone jump you in an alley--why you would be in an alley in the first place is a 'nother whole question and if you're wearing the white suit and it's as tight as the one JT wore in the movie, you are probably in a whole heap of trouble). I will not be striking poses meant for a dance floor nor looking for someone to impress with my dancing. My papier mache pig is probably the only individual who would be impressed by my dancing, unless you count the very young children in my church nursery who are mezmerized (or stunned) when I lead them in a conga-style line as we dance to "Give Said the Little Stream" or "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree".

So I think I'll just take two aspirin and not call the doctor in the morning. He's probably going to be out playing golf and won't be answering his phone anyway. This too shall pass...