Also like most authors I know, I have an evil day job. And they actually require me to wear pants. It's borderline abusive.
Because I am a thick-thighed beauty...thanks a lot german ancestors...the chub rub busts through the thighs of my pants at alarming rates. Especially when my evil day job keeps the temps in the mid to high seventies.
I wore through my last standing pair of work pants a few days ago, and band-aids on the thighs can only hold you for so long when you're climbing up and down a ladder. Not to mention the fact that taking those things off HURTS.
It's my day off today and I've had to admit it's time to do something I hate as much as wearing real pants...shopping for them.
Not to mention that I apparently carry my weight differently than the majority of the population, because I have to try on dozens of pants to not have that fun little gap in the back over my butt.
I'm already thinking about grabbing a margarita after this is done.
Is there an aspect of self-care or basic adulting that you dread doing? I also have to clean the litterbox today, so my Wednesday is really on the road to fabulousity.
Send me some motivation, internet buddies. I'm going to need it.