Finding peace with yoga pants.

As you read this, I’m quite possibly wearing yoga pants.

I’ve been struggling with the conflict between “adult me” and “so-not-an-adult me” and how they can live in harmony on the same blog or even fit in the same “writer’s voice.”  I’ve also been struggling with how they could possibly live under the same umbrella of P(EAC)E that I believe is my purpose.

I need adult supervision.

Remember? I put my totally inappropriate thoughts in writing (not all of them). I make a mess out of holidays. I can’t even make biscuits from scratch.

I may need adult supervision from time to time, but I know one thing.

yoga pants

I’m not a hot mess.

At least not the way I understand the phrase.

I did a quick scan of all the “hot mess” pins on Pinterest and I can honestly say that isn’t me. (I doubled check with a handful of friends, just to make sure I wasn’t off base. I even braved urban dictionary to be sure.)

At my messiest, I was my furthest from hot. (Unless, of course, you go back and look at the older meaning of hot mess.  Way back in Victorian times, the phrase was used to describe a big steaming pile of horse poop where it didn’t belong. In that sense, I was totally a hot mess.)

never a hot mess

These days, the phrase is used almost as a badge of honor. I can name bloggers who base the entire premise of their writing on being a hot mess and they seem quite happy and successful in their endeavors.

I don’t want to be thought of as a hot mess.  I don’t believe that represents God’s best plan for my life. I don’t believe “hot mess” can live comfortably under the P(EAC)E umbrella that I’m embracing as the vision and purpose for my life.

(I’m not passing judgement on those that are proud of their “hot mess” status. This isn’t about them. It’s about me and my purpose.)

Besides, I’m really not a hot mess.

I don’t live my life in yoga pants.  I only own one pair of them at the moment.  Based on my “scienPINfic” research, yoga pants appear to be the required uniform for hot messes everywhere.

I can’t remember the last time I was still in my PJ’s at lunch. Something about a 6am gym appointment kind of kills the ability to lounge in PJ’s.

I quit drinking wine.  I haven’t had any since January. I can’t afford the calories.  (Wine worship appears to be as big of a requirement for being a hot mess as yoga pants.)

I don’t roll around in my sinful nature and celebrate it. (Sorry, I don’t know how to sugar coat this one. I’ve got a few FB friends that just seem to wallow in sin, post photos of it all over the place, and then laugh it off as being a hot mess.)

I love being a mom and don’t feel like my kids ruined my life.

I love and respect my husband.

I don’t even drive a mini-van. Those things are hideous.

Yoga pants aren’t me.

I love my yoga pants. They’re super comfortable. I love the way the spandex sucks everything in and stops it from jiggling. If I’m having a bad day and just need to curl up on the couch, I WANT those yoga pants. It’s just that they don’t represent the best choice for me all the time.

I’m a size 20 middle aged woman who prefers to wear granny panties. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that yoga pants aren’t the best look for me right now. (I’ve drawn the picture, don’t make me color it in folks.)

Yoga pants DO have a place in my life. They stay tucked closet for cold days at the gym and monster cleaning sessions at home. I don’t turn them into an outfit with furry boots, a puffy vest, big hoop earrings, and a latte.  (If you can rock that look, more power to you. I can’t. You really don’t want to see me in yoga pants and a puffy vest.)

The bossy pants aren’t flattering or authentic.

Yoga pants don’t represent excellence for me.

I write for the love of writing

I confess, as I wrote this draft, I’m was rocking the yoga pants.  They’re comfortable and lately the only place I can find enough quiet to write is locked in my bedroom plopped on the bed. What can I say? My PJ’s were in the wash.

By the time I edited and published this, I’d changed into a different pair of pants.

Deciding what to publish isn’t a job for the yoga pants.

deciding what to publish

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Susan Baker
I have a passion for encouraging weary worn out mothers to find joy in everyday motherhood and peace in unlikely places. I have two elementary school boys, one nerdy husband, and two cats. I have a strange fascination for bad puns, the color pink, socks, and books. I worry about running out of toilet paper, wine, and chocolate.. I serve an amazing God. I live an ordinary life filled with wonder.
Susan Baker
Susan Baker

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