Sweatpants are the new shower.

If I had my way, I'd spend the weekend in sweatpants, my hot pink, cashmere robe, horizontal on the couch, with a book. The Cider House Rules, large print edition. I'd get up, occasionally, for water, or a quick glance in the fridge, only to discover it's empty, so I'd dial Jimmy John's and order a Slim One with mayo packets and retreat to my lair.

I wouldn't shower, too much effort. And I'd probably wear my glasses all weekend, too.

I'd look at my Brooks, and wish I had the motivation to load on the layers necessary to log a few winter miles, but of course I wouldn't, so my shoes would remain on the floor. By the door.

I'd consider making dinner, but would instead call mom and bum a meal off her and dad, maybe soak in the hot tub and play with the dog. On the way home, swing by Starbucks for a grande Caramel Macchiato to sip while I start a second book.

I'd have just enough money to buy a couple new CDs to load onto my iPod, and enough time to spend my Borders gift card on new books.

I'd sleep in and wake to footprints on my face, The Cats. My sister would call to tell me she's bringing over Guitar Hero and the XBox, and I'd spend the remainder of the weekend strumming some sweet rock tunes.

Except tomorrow I'm waking up early for an 8-miler, outside, and I see no Guitar Hero in my immediate future. I'll probably read, some, but not enough. And mom and dad are likely busy watching bad movies in the theater.

My wallet's empty, save for the Borders gift card, but I have no desire to drive that far for some books.

Way to rain on my parade, man.