Model of Restraint

After the Texas Rangers' devastating loss last night, I decided that I can't get too wound up over tonight's 7th and final game of the series. I love baseball season from start to finish and tonight it will be finished. Until the excitement of Spring Training 2012, there will be no Major League Baseball. It's just a bonus that my home-town team is playing for the World Championship. So tonight, instead of forgetting to breathe between pitches and screaming obscenities at the television, I'm going to try and just watch the game and hope the Rangers win knowing full well there is nothing I can do to influence the outcome.

Well, almost nothing.

I have already changed my Facebook profile photo to the Rangers' logo (which is the FB equivalent to tattooing it on my face).

Here's my lucky shirt.

Here's my lucky hat.

Here's my lucky koozie.

Here's my lucky glass.

and my lucky keys.



I'm obsessed. Let's start the obscenities.

Did I Do Thaaaaaat?

I am currently obsessed with the length of my jeans. It's becoming a real problem. I know they're too short. I just know it, but I can't prove it. I currently can't concentrate on anything else and I have that pit of the stomach feeling you get when you realize after you've already left the house that your nipples are showing through the shirt you're wearing and now there's nothing you can do about it.

I'm pretty sure they weren't always this short; I recently washed them in cold water and ran them through the dryer on low heat and somehow they shrunk, like 3 inches. I know they did. They're new and this was the first time I washed them, so I expected a little bit of shrinking, but not an entire inseam size.

But I can't prove it and that's why I'm currently obsessed with my own ankles. I'm blinklessly studying my gait in every reflective surface I pass, I'm staring at my lower half of my reflection on the elevator door, and I'm contorting my head around as far as it will go in an attempt to see the back side of my pants while everyone in my office wonders what excatly is wrong with me.

Here's what's wrong with me: I'm convinced I look like this guy: but I have no way of knowing for sure.