Back to this comfort thing. Why struggle with wedgies, fredgies and all other random-gies when you can wear sweat pants. In the winter, fleece is my fabric of choice. Runner up would be sweat pants disguised under the name “yoga pants” as long as they don’t hug my curves too perfectly. The last thing I want is to attract the wrong type of creep.
Last week, I proposed I work out with Jack of Most Trades for once. Considering he works out almost every night and is practically Ryan Gosling, I thought I would try to force a common interest between us. I don’t think I have too much in common with Ryan Gosling without forcing it upon him, unless he likes eating chips and watching the Notebook. Could one “Notebook” Ryan Gosling? Anyway, Jack accepted the challenge and asked if I was going to change into workout clothes.
Change? No, my clothes are useful in any situation. I cannot fathom how I could possibly slip into something MORE comfortable. When you stay at home all day, you don’t need to change out of your fancy clothes to cook supper or go for a run, or go to bed (as I proved yesterday when I realized at 4PM I was still wearing my pajamas and just said f@ck it). You’re already sporting “yoga pants” and a baggy hoodie over a raggedy t-shirt, normally with some sort of sauce stain. Over time, your fiancé will tell you that you look sexy in your around home clothes and actually mean it. It takes a lot of conditioning and trickery to get to that point and I’m proud of reaching the milestone.
I didn’t end up working out with Jack that night for reasons most definitely in my control. Reasons involving lack of motivation on my part and my sneaky plan to seduce Jack in order to get out of actually breaking a sweat.
“Come over heerree in the bedroom with me.”
“Babe, I have to work out.”
“You can be on tawwwpp. It is like working out.”
A proposition that was answered with a chuckle and a head shake. How he could resist THIS is beyond me. I’m such a temptress in my baggy clothes. Pretty much The Paper Bag Princess.
On Monday, I actually went to the gym with Jack with full intentions of breaking that first real sweat of 2014*. On our way from the truck to the gym, Jack asked me if I had gym shoes.
“No, they are in the truck. I better go get them.”
As I moped back to where Jack was standing with shoes clutches tightly to my chest, I whispered loud enough for him to hear, “It’s not like I need shoes at the gym. We both know I’m going to be sitting in there scoping out the hotties.”
And I’m the one that has to worry about my yoga pants attracting the wrong kind of creep . . .
*(I moved my arms and legs around and did a couple of bounces on the exercise ball, but I didn’t break a sweat. I did not get sciatica being active. I worked hard and sat for hours at a time and I earned that sciatic pain.)