E arlier this week—while in kickboxing class—I pulled a muscle in my lower back. Badly. By the time I arrived home, I was hunched over and couldn’t walk uprightly. I’ve pretty much been laying flat on the floor since then. This morning, however, I felt better and decided to attend a spin class, knowing that if I spent the ride in the saddle, I’d be okay.
Much to my girlish delight, I discovered that the new LuLuLemon store opened in the Irvine Spectrum, which is where I work out. Located across from the Apple Store, walking into the LuLu store was like slice of Heaven. Sans the pearly gates, of course.
As most my friends know, I pretty much live in these workout clothes. I think they’re perfectly acceptable to wear anywhere (and if it wasn’t for JD, I’d wear them to church, to a nice restaurant, and to the dentist), and just so darn amazing. The nearest store was located at Fashion Island, but now that there’s one so close to home, I fear I’ll be dipping into my 401K to fund my athletic fashion addiction.
As luck would have it, JD called just as I was paying for my purchase. I felt caught. Exposed. As if he had a shopping tracking device in his back left pocket. I answered prepared to deliver an oration about stimulating the economy, but he just sighed and said I could add the new items to my existing pile.
Appreciating his support, I promised to, “wear them until I’m 401, k?”
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