I might be the mother who wears leggings now.

Oh my gosh. Somehow I blinked and became a 34-year-old woman who lives in workout clothes.

When did this happen?

One of the many disgraces that 2020 has brought upon my household was the COVID-15 that I gained by drinking cocktails at 2 pm on a Tuesday. And on a Wednesday. Ok, every day. It probably was also compounded by the fact that I comforted my anxiety with tacos. Carnitas, adobada, carne asada, beans and rice…anyone else hungry now? Just me?

Anywho. I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t losing weight– I stopped day drinking and limited my intake of tacos.

And then I put my Fitbit on.

See, in my head, I am running around like a crazy person all day, every day. I have 5 little humans who are “distance learning” in my house, plus a blind bulldog, and work, and occasionally I like to shit by myself with the door closed. But in reality, I guess I am not moving much because I was getting somewhere around 2-3,000 steps per day.

Maybe more accurately I am frantic emotionally vs physically. So when it feels like I am running from room to room, computer to computer, I am probably shuffling down the hallway yelling, “FIGURE IT OUT YOURSELF. MOMMY HAS TO POOP!”

And folks, I do NOT eat like a baby fawn. I eat with the passion of a bodybuilder who has smoked a joint. I eat like I am going to take on the world (and maybe I am). So walking 2,000 steps a day is not conducive to my calorie intake.

So I started putting on that stupid Fitbit which would tell me how little I was walking, and I started moving whenever possible. Fast forward four weeks, and I now feverishly pace the block like an Olympic athlete training for glory. Or maybe Beverly Goldberg.

See I used to be a jeans girl. And I wore my jeans with pride. (If I’m going to be honest, I have even slept very comfortably in jeans.) But apparently wearing soft workout pants all day to fit in my steps between Zoom calls has spoiled me. I don’t know if it is because my jeans are all a size or two too small, or if I have just become accustomed to tucking my stomach into a high-waisted elastic band– but something has changed.

For the first time yesterday after my shower, I stood motionless in my closet staring at a pile of leggings and a pile of denim. And guess what? I chose the goddamn leggings.

I pulled them up my wet legs with a trace of sadness for my youth but that emotion was quickly washed away by the satisfaction one gets by yanking a waistline up to your bosom and giving your semi-contained stomach a nice little pat.

I have friends that live in their workout clothes and I have never understood it before. This may be due in part to the fact that I have never sincerely devoted myself to working out, thus I never had the occasion to use said gear with any frequency. Or it might just be that I am 34 now, and it takes time and energy to lose 6,345 gallons of margaritas.

Now don’t worry–I’m not going to start driving a minivan or calling people “sweetie”. I won’t stop dropping the F-bomb at inopportune moments, and I will never own a pair of Teva sandals.

But I might be the middle-aged mother who lives in workout pants now.