Ah, heeeeell no.
What. An. Asshole.
She drove me all the way to the yoga studio….rather, the parking lot OUTSIDE the yoga studio. Then whined about not having enough quarters for the meter until she *unfortunately* was unable to find a parking spot close enough to the building that wouldn’t require she burn too many precious calories to get all the way inside. I’m surprised she doesn’t insist on using one of those fancy old people chair lifts to get up the single flight of stairs to get into the studio on those rare days she does actually make it to the door.
Why did she even bother putting on her raggedy sports bra in the first place? All, “OK, husband. I’m leaving to go exercise now. Here I go! Bye, family!”
Such a load of horseshit and we all knew it. He smiled an encouraging smile, but he knew. She said something intolerable about finding her Monday zen, but she knew. Even the children knew and tried to hide their cookies for when she got back from her expedition of shame.
I hate everything.
Saddest yoga mat in the world