A small story:

Kid, leaving tomorrow at 4AM to go back to School Of Age and Quad, sighed audibly (and masked) as I brought the mail in and handed her a package.

"Thank God," she said, "It finally arrived."

She then handed the small box to me.

"For you," she said.
I opened it, looked inside, then into her eyes.

"Merry Christmas," she said.

We now have a tradition that every year, Kid gets me an atrocious pair of leggings.

"Wait, Quinn. Aren't all of your leggings atr-"

Not intentionally.
I buy the highest-quality leggings I can afford at the deepest discount.

You know what expensive leggings end up on discount?

"The atrocious ones?"


What Kid gets me are not leggings which are 85% off because no one else would wear madras.
My daughter spends time, real time, searching the length and width of the Internet for patterns which are less "Go to hell" than "Welcome to hell." The last pair were an homage to the parrots of Silver Lake. I had bird eyes in terrible places.

They were fantastic.
I pulled out the leggings and gazed upon their horror in rapt silence. I finally said, "You do understand I'm going to wear these for class today at @ONEDownDog, right?"

"It would feel wrong if you didn't," she said.

"Please," I begged, "stop packing during class and get a pict
She raised an eyebrow; I'm usually all about not having my picture taken, especially while working out.

I answered her unspoken question.

"No one will believe them without visual corroboration. They may be the worst leggings ever made." I said, factually.

Kid smiled, proudly.
"Quinn, is that..."

Uh huh.
Those are different cuts of meat.

I think it's all variations of pork. Consort swears there's some stew meat in there but, either way, it's...meat.

For yoga.

On the plus side, I believe my leggings are Keto.
"I love them very much," I told her sincerely and Kid smiled.

Consort said, "You've really raised the bar for next year," and Kid's smile turned runic.

She said blandly, "That's what the dark web is for."

I laughed a touch nervously and stared at my bacon-sheathed shins.
You can follow @quinncy.
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