Apparently, when left to my own devices I always seem to find a way to create some form of dangerous chaos.
If I were to live solo, I am thoroughly convinced that my body would only be found when someone noticed a very weird smell coming from a corner of my home, where I fell, simply walking in straight line.
Case in point, yoga clothes. I honestly cannot remember the last time my yoga clothes actually SAW a yoga class or any pose other than “Sleeping baby” and “Netflix Viewer”. I wear them pretending that perhaps I may just drop into a pose at a moment’s notice, and become more Zen.
Stop by my house any evening and I totally look like I am about to go all Warrior pose on your ass. Just ignore the fact I am most likely eating Cheetos’s and or drinking a glass of wine, maybe both at the same time if it has been a really rough day…
I just get stuck in them, literally (The clothes, not the wine or Cheetos’s).
There have been many times that the HG has had to rescue me from being suffocated from a yoga tank that is somehow stuck on my face, arms stuck above my head or behind my back sending me crashing around the house in a blind panic. You would think that at my age I would be able to dress myself…
Me *insert muffled screams* “HELP!HELP!”
HG “Um, seriously?” (as he pulls the tank down over my head)
Me “These clothes should come with warning labels”
HG “how do you survive when I am not here?”
Me “Am I too old to have a Nanny?”