If you don't know by now that I'm *that* girl, you probably haven't been reading this blog too long.
Or else I haven't been posting all that often.
Meh. Tomato tohmahto.
Seriously though, I'm absolutely *that* girl. The one that the thing that you think only actually happens in a slapstick movie, likely starring someone like Zooey Deschanel as her typical loveably-quirky-character, actually happens to in real life.
I fall up stairs.*
I'm the person who goes to pick up the heavy trash bag and makes it alllllllllll the way down the driveway and then (and THEN) the bottom falls out and the entire contents of the bag dump into a large pile at their feet.**
Awesomely, this particular trait occasionally involves realizing significantly after the fact that I have done something totally embarrassing.
So this morning.
I've tossed on a pair of jeans for the day that I haven't worn in awhile, and for the life of me, I can't remember why I haven't worn them recently. They are finally broken in, which means I've washed and worn them exactly enough times that I have finally gotten them to exactly the level of softness and comfort that I love.
It also means that they have inevitably acquired a small hole in the knee area. So they've become "work jeans" where knee holes are acceptable, because all I'm doing is making flowers.
Except for days like yesterday, when I wear those jeans to work not remembering to bring something else along for the latter part of the day, when I'll be actually going out in public and interacting with other humans.
Fast forward to the fun part, which is this morning, when I pull on the same pair of amazing jeans (because right? I'm in love with them now?) and head off to work.
And sit down on the floor to work on something.
And notice a slight....scratchy feeling.
Like I can feel the carpet through my jeans.
And that's when I remembered why I had retired this particular pair of jeans awhile back.
Possibly because there is a small rip in my jeans.
And by small, I mean, there is a LARGE rip in my jeans.
And by *in* my jeans, I mean, smack in the middle of the ass of my jeans.
The jeans that I spent the entire day walking around the Zoo in yesterday with three small children in tow and countless others who have now possibly*** seen my backside.
And, apparently, my hot pink underwear.
I can't help it. This stuff just happens.
*More frequently than I care to admit.
**I literally couldn't make this shit up if I tried. This happened WEDNESDAY.
***I say possibly because it makes me seem less totally weird and freaky. There's no way people didn't notice. How I didn't notice the BREEZE is another story.