To think of the stretchy promise of lifted glutes and molded quads, a sigh…oh how I dread the thought of stuffing myself inside the two-legged sausage casing more commonly known as yoga pants. I chuckle at the frequency with which yoga pants are worn by others with no intention of physical exertion. Instead they tend to be worn to accentuate and flaunt the curve of legs and flatness of abdomens in an effort to engage the gaze of the opposite sex.

Not I, for recently I have made every effort to avoid their clinging reminder of bulges and mushroom top waistlines. “The body is a temple of the holy spirit,” proclaim the pantheon of religions and mystics. How can one reach the maximum height of human achievement if their temple is constructed with a substance more akin to kneaded dough? 

So I dig out from the bottom of the pile of my daily uniform of dull sacks and cover ups and search for that blessed pair of bodily reinforcement. Age has been semi-kind to my curved frame, but it is I that has been mostly responsible for the habit loops that have encouraged my muscular atrophy. But squeeze in I must, as there are too many things to do in this lifetime in pursuit of human achievement! First leg, second leg, breathe in and….edified! Now, if I only I can find that intention of physical exertion…