So.... I've been doing a little exercise these days. Nothing crazy; just a little cardio (to combat the crap I eat--hello, Endless Shrimp--and because it's just stupid for anybody who's able-bodied not to).
I've been pretty proud of myself for keeping up with it. Feelin' a little better about how my jeans fit. It's put me in a general Mary Tyler Moore Throw Your Hat in the Air mood.
Until... on a recent daytrip to Breckenridge, I got into the car and blew out the left thigh of my jeans.
It. Was. Attractive.
[Side note: This is not an uncommon occurrence with ladies whose thighs touch when they walk (*gasp* did I let my horrible thigh-touching secret slip?). Repeated friction weakens fabric over time.]
It's just that the timing was a little irritating.
Thanks for the instant reminder that I'm not hot shit, universe.
Sigh.
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