So, I went to a concert last night with some friends. Yes, on a Monday night. And yes, I was reminded I'm not in college anymore when the alarm jangled at six this morning. Don't get me wrong, the show was a good time of catchy new tunes and a brief foray into the world of teenage angst that had us all looking at each other going, "Oh yeah, that's what eighteen was like. I'd forgotten."
But, I was much less enthusiastic about, well, anything, when I got home this afternoon following nine hours of ergonomics in a loud plant coated in metal dust. Two very large energy drinks kept me on my feet as I clung to the happy thought that when I finished I could come home and relax in my yoga pants.
Sigh. They are these stretchy, soft black things that lost a drawstring to the dryer. They're a little too long and the hem pools around my feet when I stand. They stretch easily when I sit cross-legged on the futon...like now. Plus, they make me feel a little bit athletic--I mean yoga is in the name--and more stylish than say, sweatpants would. And since they're stretchy, they fit as comfortably on Kimberly-after-a-taco-dinner as they do on pre-dinner Kimberly.
I admit to being a person who loves comfort. And its wonderful when it comes in a simple, wearable form like yoga pants. It is a small thing, sure, but just putting them on signifies free time.
I debated going all deep with this, comparing them to God's grace--how it's freeing, comfortable, and fits me no matter what shape I'm in. How it pools around me and covers over me after the sinful equivalent of a taco dinner.
But, to be honest, that isn't why I like them. I just do...kind of like why God likes me. (I couldn't resist at least one parallel!)
Dearest Jesus, thank you for the deeper things in life and for the simple things, like a pair of yoga pants.