50 Shades of Gray [Sweatpants]

I know the whole "50 Shades of Grey" frenzy has begun to die down as of late. I occasionally still overhear someone talking about it or see a shirtless Channing Tatum chilling on my Facebook newsfeed somewhere. 

But I was reminded of it in a strange way the other day at work. I snapped out of a daze I had been in for approximately 7 minutes, only to realize I had been daydreaming about my gray sweatpants the entire time. Their worn out elastic. The way I can tuck my feet into the leg and avoid wearing socks for warmth. The way I could fit two other individuals in there with me if such a need arises.

It's not that I'm too naive to understand the whole "50 Shades" phenomenon. It's not even that I'm a total prude. 

There just comes a day in every girl's life when she realizes that Matthew McConaughey just needs to put on a shirt, get off the beach, and do something. 

How did you become like this, you ask? You used to drool over boy bands and swear to your friends they were pointing at you when they sang a love song. You may or may not have tried to look up Justin Timberlake's phone number in a phonebook at a Memphis Red Lobster. 

It occurs because you wake up one day and it dawns on you: practicality beats pectoral muscles any day of the week, but mostly on weekends. Honey, if your washboard abs don't tackle a load of laundry, don't call 'em washboard. 

In my soon to be released novel, "50 Shades of Gray Sweatpants," you will find these steamy scenes:

• Man unloading the dishwasher. While opening the correct cabinet, he says in a low voice, "Hey baby, I know exactly where this colander goes." 

• Man completes your every Pinterest project and whim. "Hey there little darling-- just enjoy those pumpkin spice cupcakes while I finish your t-shirt headband collection."

•  Opening up her text message, a smile crosses her face as she reads: "Ordered Domino's. Added cheesy bread for only two extra dollars."

• She walks around the house with eager anticipation. Her heart begins to beat steadily. Her breath catches as she says, "The dog didn't leave a pile of poop on my clothes today."

•  She searched high and low for the perfect attention-getter. Victoria's Secret didn't have it. Cupid's didn't have it. Oh, but Wal-Mart did. Hand over that eight-dollar 6-pack of wedgie-less goodness. They threw a red one in for kicks. Can you say wild child?

• She calls out to him. He runs to her and provides the miraculous cure to her problem: a big, two-ply roll of Quilted Northern. 

• "Look at all these laundry baskets," she says with tears in her eyes. He presses a shirt to her nose and says, "These are all clean. I was going to fold them while you take a bubble bath." 

Ok, so my book may be a little more unrealistic than its original counterpart. But I feel like it is something worth fantasizing about.

My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you? 
Erma Bombeck