The middle-age fairy visited last night, and left a pair of forest green corduroy pants under my pillow.
“You aren’t really going to wear those, are you?” my wife asked, her head popping up over my shoulder as I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
“I think I have to. Enchanted creatures can be real malicious if you don’t accept their gifts. Besides, they aren’t that bad,” I said, twisting my hips to the left, sucking in my stomach. “Just need to get them hemmed a little.”
She left, stomping down the hall, muttering something about idiots and make-believe.