Crazy Pills and Pantsless Karate

Actual footage of me just living my daily life:

I did laundry this weekend. Four baskets of laundry. Just like I always do. Thursday after karate I dumped all of Harper’s karate things into the washer and I washed them all together, and then I transferred them all over to the dryer, and I dried them all together, and then I got them all out together and I put them in a big basket and I folded the entire basket of clothes, which included the gi. All of the parts of the gi.

We had the gi belt. We had the gi vest. We had all of the requisite gi components, including the damn pants, is what I’m freaking telling you.

And when I went to get her karate bag this morning, I checked inside of it, feeling like a crazy person because obviously all of the gi parts were there. I mean, why would they not be there? I washed and folded them and put them away all together in one big pile this past weekend. I clearly remember it, and I am not so dissociative that I have actual fugue episodes or anything like that.

And there’s no one to even blame that shit on either.

Much as I would love to transfer some of the cognitive heavy lifting that is my life to another personality, none exist.

Despite my best efforts.

I could really use a June Cleaver in here. But nope. It’s just me. Little Dutch boy with his finger in the dyke. Roseanne without a Dan. And raising two Darlenes.

And and guess what? I didn’t think to check the bag early enough to actually do anything about it if any of the parts of the gi were, in fact, missing. Because why the hell would I do something preventative and pragmatic such as that?

I mean come on. Have we met? Clearly not, if you think that such pre-planning and responsibility are things of which I am capable.

And guess what?

Ohhh, no gi pants. Gi pants are missing.

Just poof!

Just gone.

Into the black hole that appears to have also sucked up all of my nice plates, one complete four-top flatware set, every matching sock in the entire universe, three pairs of child’s eyeglasses, untold numbers of contact lenses, the likelihood of my ever, fucking ever ever, getting that PhD at this point, and my very will to live.

So I had to take her to karate with no pants. I mean, she had pants. But they were not karate pants.

Don’t.

Do not look at me like that, dude.

What option did I have? I can’t create gi pants out of nothing. I know that there’s a rumor going around, but I am not, in fact, a magician.

Just a mom, standing in front of empty space, asking it to be gi pants. Or wine. Wine would also be a-ok.

So. We got to karate. And immediately Sensei Nelson’s first question was, “Harper. Where are your pants?”

Not a question you ever want to hear a grown man ask your five-year-old, by the by. Not in any context, really.

And slowly, as if on cue, as if there’s a director for Candid-fucking-Camera stationed, like, inside of the giant angry foam man that people are supposed to beat the living shit out of, filming the entire interaction, every adult face in the dojo spins to stare at me.

Tell me about the fucking golf shoes, indeed.

Jesus.

So yeah. Where a set of gi pants went all by their lonesome is a mystery to me, sir. But that’s how we find our way to crazy pills and pantsless karate.

Happy Tuesday. Pass the wine.

I really really do feel like I’m taking crazy pills.

Not the good kind.

Not the kind that are fun. Not even the kind that fix the crazy.

The kind that cause it.

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