See, as I've been unpacking, I have realized what a whacko I really am. Because I opened a box this morning, stared at its contents, and wondered WTF I was thinking when I packed it. The contents included:
A pair of Grinch boxers. Mine, not Slayer's.
A variety of leotards from my dancing days.
A green and purple neon silk scarf.
A teeny string bikini.
A purple gi top from my martial arts days.
A pair of sleep shorts with Dopey the dwarf on them.
And somehow, I thought these things deserved a box of their own. Someone took a special trip to carry this box from our old bedroom out to the truck, and another someone carried it from the truck to our new bedroom. And all for a bunch of stuff that I won't possibly wear with the exception of the shorts which I might drag out on laundry day.
Okay, I lied. There's one really fabulously horrid 80s leotard, which I shall keep in the event that I need a quick costume. Because I also own leggings. Give me a crimper and some scrunchies and I've got a killer 80s chick costume. Give me some makeup too, and I could be a zombie 80s chick.
Of course, that means that I really need to get kicking with the trainer, because right now, I could squeeze into that leotard, but I'd kinda look like an overstuffed sausage. And somehow, an 80s style zombie sausage is not exactly the look I'm going for.
And then there's the bikini. I've had twins. What on EARTH do I need a bikini for, except to prove to disbelieving people that I once fit into the damned thing? Or maybe in a pinch, if someone broke into my house, I could use it as a garrote. THAT would be humiliating. The would-be-burglar goes to the gates of heaven and has to admit that he got himself suffocated by a bikini-wielding zombie sausage.
It seems to me that there's a plot for a really funny book buried in this entry...