*We interrupt your
regularly scheduled programming for a moment of success*
(A note to the faint of heart: this entry is literally me describing putting on a pair pants.)
So I woke up this morning thinking it was Thursday again.
That just lets you know how the day started. I over slept,
and woke up twisted like a pretzel so that my arm felt like tingly-jelly as I
brushed my teeth. There was no food for breakfast or for me to throw together
a lunch, and I forgot again that the lizard needed crickets.
It was a morning.
And then, as I hunted through my drawers and the clean laundry, I came to the distressing realization that: I had no pants. Seriously, NO PANTS. Every shirt I have ever owned—let alone worn in the past week—was clean and ready to go, but all leg coverings had somehow remained in the laundry bins stowed away in the basement. I scurried around the house in a pants-less frenzy as the cats watched me in their nonchalant manner, surely thinking to themselves, “Rachel, dear: pants are for peasants.”
And then, as I hunted through my drawers and the clean laundry, I came to the distressing realization that: I had no pants. Seriously, NO PANTS. Every shirt I have ever owned—let alone worn in the past week—was clean and ready to go, but all leg coverings had somehow remained in the laundry bins stowed away in the basement. I scurried around the house in a pants-less frenzy as the cats watched me in their nonchalant manner, surely thinking to themselves, “Rachel, dear: pants are for peasants.”
I knew of only one pair of jeans, stowed away. And I knew
they didn’t fit. And I knew that the last time I tried to put them on…I’m
pretty sure they laughed at me. The gray-skinny-distressed-jeans looked up at
me as I tried to yank one side to the other, willing the zipper skyward…and
they laughed at me.
And then maybe I cried.
But in this morning’s mood, I said screw it, this’ll be a great
trip down Self-Deprecating Road and I’ll have one more reason to be QUEEN OF
THE GRUMPS today. As I slipped the left leg in, I had a flashback to where the
jeans started to get too snug last time. I held my breath and couldn’t look
down. Somehow, however, the jeans kept sliding. I accepted the fact that I now
had to introduce the right leg to said Smug Jeans, and I believe I audibly
harrumphed, “yeah…that’s not happening.”
Yet, I pointed my toes and went in. Sheepishly, I pulled
those bad boys up to the “danger zone,” also known as my monstrous thighs. (*NOTE: I love my big mamma jamma thighs, because
my quads/hammies are the only muscle groups in my body that have always been
strong and awesome and ginormous.*) This would usually be the point where I
have to do a little dance to shimmy the jeans up an inch at a time until
falling over in despair and later crying into some buffalo wings. But with a
surprising pull, Not-So-Smug Jeans hiked up over my (not too shabby) caboose.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
I swear, Siddha, (the most apathetic of the three cats)
started a slow clap for me.
I almost didn’t want to take that last step and wrangle the
button. At that moment, I knew good and well that once I slid that button in
and model-stomped-Tyra-style in front of the mirror, I would have to admit it
myself that the hard work is paying off.
And once you admit that…you have to keep doing it.
My future of awesomeness was held for just a moment in the
button clasp of my jeans.
Did I back down? Did I let the fear of having to be
accountable for my results/health/wellness/waistline make me quickly escape
those jeans and dig out some dirty guachos?
Do I look like a girl who will waste a nice ass day?!
Look out world, me and these jeans are coming for your squat cleans!
(Okay, really I’ll be in spandex.)
Thank you for getting dressed with me.
*We will now return you
to your regularly scheduled programming.*
Grr...urg...LOVE,
This Primal Yogi
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