No, I do not do yoga.
I just wear the pants.
Supposedly, I am SUPPOSED to do yoga. Supposedly it would help my nervous constitution. If I had a dollar for every time someone’s told me I should meditate, I wouldn’t need to meditate, because I could afford to pay someone until the end of time to do all the crappy annoying tasks that CAUSE ME TO NEED TO MEDITATE.
The laundry situation at our house is just … there is no calculus to account for the exponential expansion of our laundry piles. Or for the fact that no matter how many piles I wash, the boys still have only one or (if they're lucky) two clean pairs of underwear between them. Going to Target and purchasing new underwear does nothing to alleviate the situation. Once the new underwear has been absorbed into the system, it leaves this dimension and enters into a second underwear realm with all the others: Lost.
Speaking of which, I have never watched the show Lost, and yet I feel like screaming at all the viewers, “YOU KNOW THE WRITERS ARE JUST FUCKING WITH YOU, RIGHT?”
Do people not realize that the writers have no answers and are making it all up as they go along? Or is that why they enjoy it? I just have this sense that everyone watching is trying to figure out The Truth, which seems a sort of pointless exercise when THERE ISN’T ANY.
Which … oh my.
Look what I just did there.
I think I just became a Buddhist.
Um ... Ohhhm.