Tonight, as I quickly changed into my flexible, pain-bearing yoga attire, I remembered the crisp, 70 degree winds that battered me during my lunch break.
“It’s jacket weather,” I concluded.
It was in this moment of weather-induced wardrobe alteration that I noticed the abundance of track jackets in my closet.
“There’s just no need for that many track jackets,” I thought.
And as I drove to L.A. Fitness, the unnecessary track jacket variety weighed heavily on my mind.
“Why am I still thinking about the track jackets?” I wondered.
[Musical Interlude: “Sexy Chick” by David Guetta]
And then it hit me.
“Oh shit. I am becoming Mr. Rogers.”
First, the socks.
Now, the jackets. A forced replay of the jacket lineup sent a chill down my spine.
“I don’t even KNOW my neighbors.”
But fear was quickly replaced with a new sentiment: love.
Maybe those lingering thoughts of sporty sweaters were just a belated shot from Cupid. That sly, fat bastard. I was ready to forgive him for the last mishap. I mean, who saw the Clay Aiken thing coming?
Eager to let Mr. Rogers know that I’d like to be more than his neighbor, I rushed home and took necessary first date precautions.
We’re going to be so happy with our Asian baby. What’s that? Stomach cancer? Oh..