I'm starting to get a complex.
Not true. I mean, I started getting this complex when I realized that gray hair is easier to maintain than dyed hair, and anti-aging facial cream only reverses a few bad days and not years of life damage. But, I digress.
Recently, on a trip to Seattle, I rip my underwear. Yes, I do. To be fair, it isn't new underwear; I've had it for a year or so. Also, it isn't exactly top-shelf quality. It's cheapo, multi-pack, microfiber with rolled edges.
As my sister and I are getting ready to run for the bus (we have a last-minute change of plans, and our bus arrival time moves up about thirty minutes), I am fully dressed and ready when my underwear waistband springs a hole. I debate getting through the day with it, but, because the material is poorly made stretch knit, the hole keeps growing, and growing, and growing ... pretty much until the waistband and underwear were no longer attached.
Thank goodness we are still in the hotel room. I madly untie my sneakers, undress my bottom half, quickly shimmy into unripped underwear, re-dress myself, and retie my shoes so fast that I don't even recognize what kind of knots I now sport. (Who knows what the cleaning staff will think when they empty that trash bin.)
Hahahahaha Makes a funny story. Right?
To be fair, yet again. these are very old, very well-loved yoga pants. They are so worn that I have relegated them to pajama bottoms rather than allow them to be seen in public. But, still. They are decently high-end yoga pants, just the same.
So, this leaves me with two thoughts about my life, and you can help me decide which one may be truer because I really need to get this under control before the complex I am developing morphs into full-on anxiety:
1. I don't know my own strength.
2. I need to go shopping.
