There are days that I’m so bummed out I hate to leave the house.
It takes every ounce of energy I can muster to shower, let alone get dressed when I hate myself and every single thing in my closet.
Nothing looks good. I’m no good. There’s just no use.
A few weeks back in Wisconsin, the barista at the Delavan Starbucks displayed the most impressive collection of flair I’d seen in ages, and in a place not normally known for flair: the bill of her Starbucks baseball cap.
I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but there has been a steady rise in trends that justify wearing sweatpants as acceptable non-workout attire.
As someone who has spent a fair amount of time in them, I’m fucking thrilled.
Is it bad that I joined a book club to weasel my way into the fancy homes on the other side of my cul-de-sac? With no intention of reading the books?
Let me explain.