Yoga Pant Quotes

Aunt B walked out onto the helipad wearing loose yoga pants. “I’m just here to stretch. Kate, want to help?” “Sure.” Thirty seconds later, as I was flying through the air, I decided that this wasn’t the best idea.

How had she become one of those people who wears yoga pants all day? She used to make fun of those people. With their happiness maps and their gratitude journals and their bags made out of recycled tire treads. But now it seems possible that the truth about getting older is that there are fewer and fewer things to make fun of until finally there is nothing you are sure you will never be.

I think the first thing we need to talk about is you not running around in tight T-shirts and yoga pants.” “Fine. I’ll stop doing that as soon as you shave.” Jack ran his hand along his jaw and grinned. “You like the scruff, huh?” Did she ever.

I don't always change my clothes just because I'm leaving the house. I wear yoga pants 99 percent of the time, and I pretend that other people don't notice that I'm wearing my pajamas in public.

He needs to be the kind of guy who thinks you're beautiful when you're not. So, for example, he wouldn't care if you live in yoga pants even though you hate yoga.

Jesus, you never fail to surprise me, baby.” He’s supporting the heavy bike, and us, with his strong legs braced on either side. He reaches between us and rips my yoga pants at the seam of my crotch. Holy fucking shit! My panties are next, and before I know it, he’s lowered the waist of his pants and is filling me.

Never judge a person until you've walked a mile in their yoga pants.

An hour later, a nameless, cold-faced man returned with a tray of fresh pasta, warm bread, and a few bags of brand new comfort clothes: yoga pants, tees, a few sports bras, and...pink thong underwear? Well, of course. Wouldn't want to be held prisoner and have panty lines.

Nick and Vero glanced up as my heels clicked into the kitchen. Vero looked confused. “I’m sorry. Do I know you? Because I thought I worked for a vampire in yoga pants.

I don’t believe we should carry backup plans in life’s suitcase— they’re too easy to unpack like living a life in yoga pants, so comfortable our hips spread into new timezones...

I told him I wanted to major in creative writing and sit around in yoga pants and do nothing but write books eat ice cream every day.

Had she known he was housing a natural disaster sized cock in those track pants she might have limbered up her fingers first with digit-yoga ...

In fact, my yoga pants should be called “sitting around eating cheese pants.” A longer title, sure, but more accurate.

Powerful women don’t need another pair of yoga pants, we need a mic.

Seeing the girl that I crashed into wearing a tight hot pink workout tank top and black yoga pants turned my dick into granite.

It’s a one of a kind, camel-toe couch. For when yoga pants aren’t enough.

It might have felt easier if she'd been able to say that she moved across the room to him in a trance, as if he were a vampire exerting some kind of mind control. That would have been a cop-out, though. Not to mention a lie. She was exquisitely aware of every movement she made as she uncurled her legs, rose from her chair and walked slowly and carefully around the end of the coffee table towards him. She felt the wide hem of her yoga pants sway around her ankles, felt the nap of the blue-and-green area rug and then the cool smoothness of the wooden floorboards beneath her feet. She felt the way the thick sofa cushions gave beneath her as she sat beside him and the pull of gravity when his heavier weight made a deeper depression that her body rolled naturally into...And then she felt everything.

What do I believe? I believe that it's easier to sit at home in your yoga pants, with your Lean Cuisine Cafe Classic Fettuccine Alfredo. But it's important not to.

But no, it’s yoga pants and T-shirts with slogans like “Save the Rain Forest” on them, made only of natural fibers of course.

Look at you,” he groans. “Ripped yoga pants, a wet pussy, and that satisfied fucking smile on your face. You look like you’re my own personal little slut, baby.

She has also found nirvana in wearing yoga pants with no intention of doing poses, peace in ignoring ingredient lists, calories, and macro counts.

Leyla sat in the middle of the floor performing yoga or meditation. I couldn't remember if they were actually different things. I thought meditation was the one that didn't require special pants.

GOD. Sometimes I think there might be a god out there, and that every once in a while he tunes in to see what we're up to, and have a good laugh at how we like to dress him up in various costume. Robes, thorny crowns, yarmulkes and curls, saris and butt-hugging yoga pants. Male, female, a genderless reincarnation factory; a Mother Earth or a withholding Father Christmas. I would think it would amuse the hell out of him. That we're all idolaters, worshiping figments of our own creation who bear no resemblance to him. Maybe he's sitting in some alternate dimension somewhere, saying, 'Shit, I didn't even create the world! I was just cooking my dinner, not paying attention to the heat, and suddenly here was this big band and a few hours later, a bunch of dinosaurs...

I told him I wanted to major in creative writing and sit around in yoga pants and do nothing but write books and eat ice cream every day.

Bedrossian Man Bedrossian Man, runs as Fast as … yoga pants

The minivan is the yoga pants of vehicles. But you know what? I love my yoga pants.

Women thought they were doing themselves a favor by wearing yoga pants for comfort. Really, they were doing men the favor, allowing us to see every curve and dip of their gorgeous bodies.

Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to say yes, only to have my plans fall through at the last minute and I can take off my regular-people clothes and redon my paint-splattered yoga pants.

My normal wardrobe consists of an exquisitely well-worn array of hoodies and soft yoga pants with inexplicable black stains—you know the ones, they stay black while the pants fade to a soft gray?

It’s actually totally badass to go from your twenties to your thirties. There are so many awesome things that happen to you! Like deeply bonding with your yoga pants, developing a burning passion for expensive cheese, having real, actual orgasms (!), not giving two shits what other people think, figuring out the things you actually like to spend time and money doing, and embracing giant underwear.

Yes, I was clad in yoga pants that had never seen a yoga studio and a T-shirt covered in rabbit and dog hair. But I’d been reading. There was no reason to dress up for reading. Books didn’t care. Books were just happy to be read.

Is she pretty?” That would be a hell yes. Big soft eyes, full pink lips. Legs and tight skirts. And those damn cowboy boots. And the yoga pants and bra top she wore sailing. Long blond hair—-at least he thought it was long; she always kept it wound up and clipped in a messy bun. He’d dated white girls before, a time or two. But never someone that white, from Texas. Or that young. She was what, fifteen years younger, at least. An itty-bitty thing who could throw a grown man to the ground. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s real pretty.

Don’t get all grumpy,” I tease, wrapping my arms around him and leaning close. He growls and then turns, grabbing me up and squeezing my ass. “You’re lucky you’re hot,” I say, kissing his lips. “Yeah, well, I’m cursed that my wife is so damn hot. Can’t keep them off of you.” “Well, I did wear my best yoga pants,” I say, and shrug. “I told you your ass looked too good in them.” “Give me my smile,” I say, and he does as I ask. He beams at me, giving me that cocky-ass grin with dimples showing. I kiss each one before I kiss his lips, and he grins against me.

Except that in yoga pants or a two-thousand-dollar Versace skirt, I’m Avery James. I was born and bred and goddamn raised to demand attention. I may not have deserved any of that privilege, but I don’t deserve his scorn. “Can you at least look at me after I sucked your dick?” That gets his attention.

The wife has begun planning a secret life. In it, she is an art monster. She puts on yoga pants and says she is going to yoga, then pulls off onto a country lane and writes in tiny cramped writing on a grocery list She thinks she should go off her meds maybe so as to write more fluidly. Possibly this is not a good idea. But only possibly.

If you’re chasing a dream of how everything should go, then you’re going to chase it forever. Because, news flash, it never goes the way it’s supposed to.

two in the morning, and this time she was home. She answered the door still half asleep, wearing yoga pants and an oversized Ohio State sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back, tucked beneath a scarf with a red-and-white gingham pattern. She must have been expecting someone else—a boyfriend, perhaps, or possibly even one of them—because it took her a moment to recognize

Spirituality is a concoction of prescriptions and half-truths. It is a circus of orange robes, incense, and ineffective jargon such as love and mindfulness. It is a maze of silent retreats and men with pony tails and yoga pants spouting spiritual psychobabble to those who enjoy the psychobabble. It is the unserious leading the unserious in concentric circles that lead only to more circles.

I’m totally unprepared for this level of hotness—well, any kind of hotness, to be honest. I’m dressed in yoga pants and a T-shirt. I wanted to be comfortable for traveling, and now, I want to slap myself. I am not dressed to meet a man of his caliber, especially not now while I’m going to be seated next to said man for the next six and a half hours. Honestly, I can’t even remember if I put on deodorant. Oh God, please let me have put on deodorant.

What are you doing here?” “Coming to pick you up for tonight.” “I’m not going.” “Would it help if I lowered to my knees and said please?” He started to go down. I hit his shoulder. “Stop that. You’re embarrassing me.” He dragged his gaze over my body. “You look beautiful.” “Whatever.” I wore black yoga pants and a shirt with Star War’s Yoda flipping the bird on the front. “I love the way your clothes hug your body.” “I love the way you continue to invade my privacy.

. . . I bet I'm beginning to make some parents nervous - here I am, bragging of being a dropout, and unemployable, and about to make a pitch for you to follow your creative dreams, when what parents want is for their children to do well in their field, to make them look good, and maybe also to assemble a tasteful fortune . . . But that is not your problem. Your problem is how you are going to spend this one odd and precious life you have been issued. Whether you're going to live it trying to look good and creating the illusion that you have power over people and circumstances, or whether you are going to taste it, enjoy it, and find out the truth about who you are . . . I do know you are not what you look like, or how much you weigh, or how you did in school, or whether you start a job next Monday or not. Spirit isn't what you do, it's . . . well, again, I don't actually know. They probably taught this junior year at Goucher; I should've stuck around. But I know that you feel best when you're not doing much - when you're in nature, when you're very quiet or, paradoxically, listening to music . . . We can see Spirit made visible when people are kind to one another, especially when it's a really busy person, like you, taking care of the needy, annoying, neurotic person, like you. In fact, that's often when we see Spirit most brightly . . . In my twenties I devised a school of relaxation that has unfortunately fallen out of favor in the ensuing years - it was called Prone Yoga. You just lay around as much as possible. You could read, listen to music, you could space out or sleep. But you had to be lying down. Maintaining the prone. You've graduated. You have nothing left to prove, and besides, it's a fool's game. If you agree to play, you've already lost. It's Charlie Brown and Lucy, with the football. If you keep getting back on the field, they win. There are so many great things to do right now. Write. Sing. Rest. Eat cherries. Register voters. And - oh my God - I nearly forgot the most important thing: refuse to wear uncomfortable pants, even if they make you look really thin. Promise me you'll never wear pants that bind or tug or hurt, pants that have an opinion about how much you've just eaten. The pants may be lying! There is way too much lying and scolding going on politically right now without having your pants get in on the act, too. So bless you. You've done an amazing thing. And you are loved; you're capable of lives of great joy and meaning. It's what you are made of. And it's what you're here for. Take care of yourselves; take care of one another. And give thanks, like this: Thank you.

it must have taken her a while to get ready before dropping the kids off at day care, then she spent the day e-mailing, on the phone, in various meetings, and once she got home, around nine, exhausted (Bruno was the one who picked the kids up, who made them dinner—he had the hours of a civil servant), she’d collapse, get into a sweatshirt and yoga pants, and that’s how she’d greet her lord and master, and some part of him must have known—had to have known—that he was fucked, and some part of her must have known that she was fucked, and that things wouldn’t get better over the years. The children would get bigger, the demands at work would increase, as if automatically, not to mention the sagging of the flesh.

Compared to cotton, synthetic fibers require a lot less water to produce, but that’s not necessarily a good enough argument for using them, since they have other significant impacts: they are still made of oil, and their production can require a lot of energy. MIT calculated that the global impact of producing polyester alone was somewhere between 706 million metric tons of carbon dioxide, or about what 185 coal-fired power plants emit in a year.2 Samit Chevli, the principal investigator for biomaterials at DuPont, the giant chemical company, has said that it will be hundreds of years before regular polyester degrades.3 Plus, while the chemicals used in production typically aren’t released to the environment, if factories don’t have treatment systems in the last phase of production, they can release antimony, an element that can be harmful to human health, as well as other toxins and heavy metals. Despite having just written a good amount about the impacts associated with the production of synthetic fibers, that’s actually not why I wanted to call attention to your yoga pants and dry-fit sweat-wicking T-shirts, which we wear out to dinner. It is hard for me to leave my fashion critique at the door, but what I actually want to say about synthetic fibers is that they are everywhere—not just in all of our clothes, but literally everywhere: rivers, lakes, oceans, agricultural fields, mountaintops, glaciers. Everywhere. Synthetic fibers, actually, may be one of the most abundant, widespread, and stubborn forms of pollution that we have inadvertently created.

Hallsy is only thirty-nine, and already her face is pulled tight as a pair of Lululemon yoga pants across a plus-size girl’s rear. She’s never been married, which she’ll tell you she never wants to be even though she hangs all over every remotely fuckable guy after a single drink, while they gently untangle her Marshmallow Man arms from around their stiff necks. It’s no wonder the only ring on her finger is the Cartier Trinity, what with the way she’s ruined her face and the fact that she spends more time sunning on the beach than she should running on a treadmill. But it’s not just her sunspot-speckled chest and stocky, lazy frame. Hallsy is the type of person others describe as “whacky” and “kooky,” which is just the civilized way of saying she’s a nasty cunt. Hallsy she loves me.

SpongeBob SquarePants vs. Squidward Tentacles When SpongeBob SquarePants tried to have kinky sex with Squidward Tentacles, SpongeBob was confused as to whether to suck the octopus's nose or use Squidward's head as a butt-plug. SpongeBob appreciated a challenge and decided to do both at the same time. Now SpongeBob has a lucrative career as a Yoga instructor at Yogis Anonymous in Santa Monica. Gary the Snail runs the Spin class.

As my energy changed and felt so much more free, open and exciting, new stuff started showing up. It became addictive — circulating energy. I stopped wearing my workout clothes every damn day. Working from home has its perks, but I was just dressing by default. There I was with a wardrobe full of clothes, yet I was wearing the same yoga pants, Jeaniius Tee, and hair scrunchie top knot every damn day. Time to wear the clothes I'd never worn, just because! I felt refreshed. Paying more attention to my clothes led to something else that shifted my energy level. I have always given away my clothes in bundles, because I just love the feeling of minimalism (and giving) but I was reaching a whole new level. I realized that every single thing in my home had its own energy-even my clothes. So if there was something sitting around that was not getting used or giving me any joy or excitement, it was time for it to go. I felt I had space for so many surprises to show up, and of course, they did.

Crap food. Toxic music. Even pop psychology and religion. We take the human impulse toward self-knowledge, and reconstitute it as EST, The Forum, and Scientology. We pervert the 5000-year-old spiritual discipline of Yoga into a weight loss regimen and an excuse to buy cute, clingy stretch pants. And then there’s our affectation for New Age religion, which is to actual religion as light jazz is to Coltrane: Astrology, palm reading, Phrenology, past life regression, astral projection, tarot, numerology, crystals, psychics, and mediums who talk to the dead.

I glance up and nearly squeal in shock as the same hunky mechanic stares down at me. How did he see me back here? This spot is super secluded, and no one ever sits here. “Can I help you?” I ask, pulling my earbuds out and taking in the broad width of his shoulders. Today, Mr. Book Boyfriend is wearing blue jeans and a black, fitted Tire Depot T-shirt. He’s much cleaner than he was yesterday in his dirty coveralls that made me reconsider the profession of my current book hero. “You’re back,” he states knowingly, his stunning blue eyes drinking in my yoga pants, T-shirt, and a baseball cap. “I, um…had an issue with one of my tires. The guys are fixing it.” “Which guys?” he asks, crossing his tan, sculpted arms over his chest. I have to crane my neck back completely to even reach his face he’s so tall. “I’m not really sure.” “Okay, well, which car?” he inquires, running a hand through his trim black hair. Damn, he’s really got that tall, dark, and handsome thing down to a T. He looks almost Mediterranean. Le swoon! I swallow slowly. “Um…I drive a Cadillac SRX.” “A Cadillac?” He barks out a small laugh. “Isn’t that kind of an old lady car?” My brows furrow. “It’s not an old lady car. It’s a luxury SUV. It’s wonderful. I have heating and cooling seats.” “Well, if you have that kind of money to spend on a vehicle, you should look at a Lexus or a BMW. Much more sexy feel to the body. You’d look pretty damn hot driving a Lexus LX.” “Maybe I’m not trying to look hot. Maybe I like looking like an old lady.” That was a really unhot thing to say, but Book Boyfriend booms with laughter and squats down next to me.

they felt like they were informed. It was a fine line--too much information led to more interrogation and too little information leads to major snooping. Thrace believed that I had developed the rare ability to express something while revealing nothing. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that a sorcerer with laughing hazel eyes might have the ability to see beyond all my fine lines. I smiled at that whimsical thought as I finished my pot roast and parental interrogation.   Chapter 2: Mortal Combat   I woke up groggy because I set my alarm for a half hour earlier than usual to get ready to work out. I don’t know why I did that. Ok. I might know why I did that, but 6:00am was too early for rational thought. I kept my outfit simple with black yoga pants and a retro Offspring tee. It was much more difficult to get my thick auburn hair to calm down after a night of restless sleep. Luckily, I didn’t get any zits overnight which would have been just my luck. After some leave-in conditioner and some shine spray, I hoped my hair no longer looked like a bird’s nest. I headed downstairs just in time to see my dad coming from the kitchen with his coffee, my Mt. Dew, and Zone bar. Hello, my name is Calliope, and I am an addict. My drug is caffeine. I like my caffeine cold usually in the fountain pop variety—Mt. Dew in the morning and Diet Dr. Pepper in the afternoon. I like the ice and carbonation, but in the morning on the way to work out, I’ll take what I can get. I thanked my dad for my version of breakfast as we walked to the car. He only grunted his reply. We slid into the white Taurus and headed to the YMCA. I actually started to get nervous, as we got closer. We were at the Y before I was mentally prepared. I sighed and lumbered out of the car. As we walked in and headed toward opposite locker rooms, dad announced, “Meet you back here in an hour, Calli.

I was pretty sure MacKenzie’s yoga pants cost more than my mom’s CAR! I am so NOT lying.

I scowled teasingly. “You said you were wearing yoga pants and a tank top.” She shrugged, tipping her head to the side. “And you said you were twenty minutes away.” “Did you willingly start our soul-searing, blazing-romance-of-the-ages with a lie?” She lifted a single manicured nail I the air. “Whoa, easy there, Nicholas Sparks.

Elisabeth Elliot emphasizes why it’s hard to capture thoughts: “The taking of captives is not a gentle business. They don’t want to come.”[2] In other words, we have to expect a fight as we change our thought patterns. We need to show up dressed for battle, not with our yoga pants around our ankles.

Jen Hatmaker is the author of the New York Times bestseller For the Love (plus eleven other books) and happy hostess of a tightly knit online community where she reaches millions of people each week. She is a high-functioning introvert who lives her home life in yoga pants and her travel life in fancy yoga pants. She and her husband, Brandon, founded the Legacy Collective, a giving community that granted more than a million dollars in its first year and funds sustainable solutions to systemic problems locally and globally. They also starred in the popular series My Big Family Renovation on HGTV and stayed married through a six-month remodel. Jen is a mom to five, a sought-after speaker, and a delighted resident of Austin, Texas, where she and her family are helping keep Austin weird. For more information, visit jenhatmaker.com.

Working hard to please someone else, instead of yourself, never brings happiness.” When

You needn’t establish rules for why it may or may not be appropriate to wear, say, yoga pants to the grocery store. Your yoga pants were made by someone. They were designed, they were stitched, they were seamed, they were dyed, they were woven, they were packaged. Wear them to buy your milk. Wear them wherever you’d like. Shopping

All over America, you see women in yoga pants and men in sweatpants, even when they are not on their way to or from a yoga class or softball field. When I fly, I see so many sweat suits – even pajamas – on my fellow travelers that it’s as though the airplane were the sleeper car of a train bound for summer camp or a gym in the sky, not a public space for business people and vacationers.

You can drink all the green juice, dodge all the gluten, and run around town in all the fancy yoga pants you like—but it means nothing if you’re not also addressing your mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being.

Snappy, voyeuristic, and upsettingly relevant, The Goddess Effect takes us on a heart-pumping romp through the ‘cult’ of contemporary wellness. Either ironically or sincerely, if you’ve ever opted to add CBD to your oat milk latte, moon bathed a crystal, dropped $110 on a pair of yoga pants, cried under the mood lighting of a fauxspirational fitness class, or made any other questionable life decision in pursuit of self-actualization

The garage door is open at Ben's house when we pull into the drive. Adele Cody is almost hidden by Bounty eight-packs in a stack nearly as tall as she is. She flits in and out of the shelving racks wearing yellow yoga pants and a black sports bra. Her abs are clearly defined, the muscles in her arms ropy and straining like an aging pop star's, with too little fat on her body and too much Pilates on her schedule. She's making room for the paper towels, moving boxes of Band-Aids to the shelves above and Brillo Pads to the shelves below, displacing display flats of Carmex and Altoids in either direction.

Long dark hair in beachy waves. Manicured hands. Pilates-class thin. The requisite yoga pants and a tank top that showed off her toned arms and shoulders.

I make a quick trip to my room to change out of my work clothes and get into some comfy yoga pants and my favourite, a Game of Thrones T-shirt that reads, Stick ’em with the pointy end. If Jay’s going to be living here, then I might as well let him see the real me.

Why do you help these women?” “Because I couldn’t save my mother.” “Tell me about her.” “She was funny,” I said softly. Christina’s smile pressed against my chest. “She had a great laugh. It was contagious. She would make up these strange songs that made no sense, but you couldn’t help but laugh with her because it was all so ridiculous. She took school seriously, though. Always asked if I’d finished my homework and if I paid attention in class. She would pull out my work and quiz me if I had a test the next day. And I could never lie to her. I tried when I was small, but she always knew when I was lying, so I stopped. She told me she’d never be angry with me as long as I told her the truth. She was beau-tiful.” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat. “She wasn’t glamorous or anything like that. It was a quiet beauty. She wore a ponytail most of the time and yoga pants, but maybe it was her smile that made her beautiful because she could light up a room with it.

A bell chimes as I open the door. It's even more magical inside than out. Spools of ribbon hang from the walls like the atelier of a fairy queen. Tiny jasmine buds lace through the curls of a crystal chandelier. Dresses fill the curves of antique wardrobes, as if this were a princess's closet and not a store. A group of girls squeal as they browse the gowns. They've dressed almost otherworldly, so unlike the yoga pants and sweatshirts I'm used to in San Francisco. Instead, they're ornamented in seafoam trousers made of silk, lace corsets with ruffles across the bustier, satin slips with rose embroidery. They wear seashells in their hair and around their necks--- an iridescent mollusk held together by a string of pearls, an abalone claw clip that flashes different colors beneath the light, pukas threaded between pastel sea glass.

At some point in my interactions with new age hippies who may or may not be toxic (the good ones are so good, but the bad ones are a nightmare in yoga pants), a nightmare-in-yoga-pants person told me that we choose everything that will happen to us, before we are born, as part of our reincarnation journey. If you just said, “Wait, what?” so did I when I heard it. There’s this idea that we chose all our traumas, heartache, and struggles, because this was our best path to enlightenment in this life. This is an idea I find to be deeply flawed in so many ways, since it’s far too easy to hear this and slide into a pit called “I deserved [insert painful traumas],” that is never, ever true.

As I worked, two young women in yoga pants and thin tank tops over sports bras walked past my table. I looked up and smiled. They pretended not to notice the rakish middle-aged man and his charming dog. Restraint.

If you say pumpkin spiced latte in the mirror three times, a white girl in yoga pants and a ponytail will jump out and tell you her favorite thing about fall.

What do you want that couldn’t wait until the morning?” Arik asked as he led the way inside. The Pride’s king headed to the bar he’d had installed in the corner of his living room. He pulled a bottle of whiskey from a shelf. He poured them each a generous dollop. “I want permission to go after the Northern Lakes Pack.” “Am I going to regret asking why?” “They’re threatening Arabella.” “Who’s that?” “Jeoff’s sister.” Arik tossed back the fiery liquid before asking with a frown, “Why the fuck would I let you start a war over Jeoff’s sister?” “Because those pricks attacked us on home turf.” A snort escape Arik. “Ah yes, that puny attempt at a kidnapping. You caused quite a stir with your antics. Part of your stunt even made it onto YouTube before we could squash it. I had to have our PR department spin a Twitter thread on how it was part of a scene being taped for a movie.” “You can’t blame me for that. I had to stop them.” He did, but what he didn’t tell Arik was he’d never once thought of the repercussions of his actions. He saw Arabella in danger and had to go to her rescue. Bystanders and witnesses be damned. “I can see why you’d feel like you had to act. I mean, they made you look silly by catching you off guard like that, but, next time, could you be a little more discreet?” “No.” Why lie? The reply took his leader aback. “What do you mean no? Discretion is a fact of life. One girl isn’t worth drawing undue attention to ourselves.” “One girl might not be, but my mate is.” Want to stop conversation dead? Drop a bombshell. “Close your mouth, Arik, before you catch flies.” Only Arik’s mate could hope to tease him like that and get away with it. Dressed in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, Kira emerged from the bedroom and perched on a barstool. “Did you hear what he said?” a still astonished Arik demanded. “Yes. He’s fallen victim to the love bug. I think it’s cute.” “I would have said impossible,” Arik muttered. “You and me both, old friend. But, the fact of the matter is, I’m like ninety-nine percent sure that Arabella is supposed to be mine.” “And the one percent that isn’t sure?” “Is going to get eaten by my lion.

I grabbed a bra and a pair of yoga pants I’d never in my entire life ever worn while doing yoga.

Before I could scream, his free hand slammed down on my throat and his face was directly above mine again. He growled as his blue eyes turned to ice and he just stared at me as I gasped for air. “You’re going to regret doing that, sweetheart.” My vision blurred from my tears; the outer edges were turning black as I struggled to stay conscious. Blake’s breathing deepened and the look that crossed his painfully handsome face terrified me. My mouth opened and shut, but I couldn’t pull in any air and I couldn’t make a sound. My arms gave up their fight seconds before my bucking hips did the same, and soon I could hardly focus on Blake at all. I prayed that someone would come and save me as the hand that had been holding my hands down on the mattress slid down and cupped me through my thin yoga pants. I felt his hot breath on my ear. “I’ll make sure you never want to fight me again, Rachel.” The

Yoga pants often answer questions I didn't ask.

Renaissance chairs into a circle for group discussions? She was led to a library that matched the proportions of the rest of the place. Two-story bookshelves, a desk the size of South Dakota, and a fireplace big enough to house a family of four. A man with wavy gray hair and yoga pants with a white cotton peasant shirt, barefoot, turned and greeted her. “Ah, the private eye!” he said, his voice rich and hearty, but high-pitched. “Yes, and you are?” Mary said.

Yeah. It’s a reward. I wanted to bury myself inside you the moment I saw you on the plane. I wanted to rip those yoga pants off you and bend you over the seat and fuck you right there on the damned airplane. But I didn’t. And I wanted to fuck you here, last night. But I didn’t. I needed your pussy so bad, last night, but I had to wait. Now I’m inside you, and I’m not going to rush it.

small top she wore, and disappeared between her breasts. He set his cup of coffee down before he dropped it. She wore yoga pants that fit like a second skin. Her toes peeked out from below, with pink sparkly polish finishing her off. As his eyes roamed back to her face he found her hungry gaze on him. She held a towel to her hair

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Covered with snow on a clear day, the houses looked cheery and well cared for. They also looked empty. Dusty thought about empty houses in little towns like this all over the world, with men going and gone and no women left inside. Houses without housewives. No cooking and cleaning, no humming and apron-wearing wives and mothers like in the old sitcoms. No rushing minivans driven by lithe women in yoga pants whose children were well behaved and spoke Mandarin. No soap-opera-addicted, overweight, neglectful trailer trash with a dozen kids running around screaming, their mouths always stained with Kool-Aid. Every man in Huntsville remembered another life, expecting to come home every day to find someone there. All the empty houses sat. No one numbered the silent days.

Through the array of wireless cameras, they watch this widow-maker widow as she quickly changes from yoga pants into slacks and pulls on a sport coat over her T-shirt and carries clothes from the closet to the suitcase on the bed.

There are only three things that tell the truth: drunk people, small children, and yoga pants.” Hunter laughed out loud. “Well, last time I was at the gym, I asked the personal trainer which machine is best to impress the ladies—and he pointed outside to the ATM machine.

Thank goodness yoga pants were stretchy.

You’ve been playing good girl and lying low, and all you can show for it is what? An excessive time spent at the yoga studio?” “Doctors advise it’s healthy.” “There’s nothing healthy about a woman pushing down her feelings and covering her workaholism with yoga pants.

Do you want me to come out there in only my gym shorts of or boxer briefs with no shirt?” “Ah! No!” “Excellent. Go put on a fucking bra and an outfit that won’t make me hard and we’ll survive this trip.” A pause. It’s heavy. “I’m not sure I like your level of honesty. For the record, I’m wearing a sports bra and cropped yoga pants. And I didn’t know my braless state made you hard.” … Honesty is how we’ll get through this unscathed, and I plan to start now. “I’m a straight guy. Boobs are our thing, especially my thing. Any boobs. Your braless state makes me hard. I don’t like it. I fucking hate it. So let’s not encourage it. In fact, how about both of us wear clothes this week? Then neither of us will be tempted to look at things we shouldn’t.

maternity, and “other size" items to another storage space, such as under the bed or in the basement. Many people can reduce the amount of clothing in their closet by half if they follow this guideline. 2. EMPTY, QUICK-TOSS & SORT Make space to spread everything out. (A bed works great for this.) You’ll be taking out every item in the closet, dresser drawers, and anything else that contains clothing. As you take things out, check the quick-toss list to see what can be placed immediately into the trash. Because of the sheer enormity of some people’s clothing collections, it is okay to start the declutter phase in tandem with the emptying phase. If something triggers an immediate “toss it!” reaction, it’s okay to place it into the donation box right away. As you sort, separate into work and casual wear by item type, then group similar items by color. Button-down shirts, dress pants, blazers, dresses, skirts, etc. should all be batched together so you can quickly see what you have and assess its placement. Make a separate pile for each category of casual clothing, such as pants, t-shirts, shorts, yoga/sweatpants, and sweatshirts. Also group together shoes, belts, and accessories. Once the closet is empty, give it a good vacuuming and dusting, and wipe down any shelves in the closet and inside drawers. 3. DECLUTTER

skinny middle-aged loose-skinned white ladies with their yoga pants and their Chinese babies in their grocery carts.

They went at it. Their mouths a frantic, searching quest. As though they were trying to make up for thirty years of longing in this one kiss. He bit her lower lip and she raked her nails down his back. They tumbled to the bed, and his body was finally, deliciously covering hers. She arched. He surged. They rocked. She dug her nails into the base of his back. His hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb stroking over the nipple. She cried out, and he caught the sound with his lips. He ripped away from her, slid down her body, and captured her nipple with his lips, while his free hand snaked down into her yoga pants. He licked at the hard bud. Sucked. Her hips arched off the bed as he tugged harder and harder. When his teeth scraped over her oversensitive flesh, she keened and she couldn't stop the words from falling from her lips. "Jack. God. Jack. Yes. More." He groaned, the sound vibrating over her skin. He pulled her deeper into his mouth. His fingers slid down her waistband and into her panties. Her legs parted. His fingers brushed her clit. She bowed off the bed. He circled the bundle of nerves and lifted his head. "So damn wet." She could feel how wet she was, how slippery. "More." He pushed one long finger inside her, and kissed her, brushing his mouth over her lips. "You feel like heaven." She arched into his touch as his thumb relentlessly circled her clit. Around and around. Over and over. Until she thought she'd go mad with sheer need. "Jack. Please." He plunged two fingers inside her, hooking on a spot so good she lost focus. "Please what, Chlo?" His voice, oh God, his voice. Achingly familiar and yet strange all at once. He swiped over her flesh and she keened again as her body tightened. "Stop." Her head rolled back. "I'm going to come." He increased his pressure and whispered against the shell of her ear, "Then come.

I’m sorry? Where are you going in such a hurry, Karen? Is there some kind of grumpy California cunts meeting you’re late for? I see you’re wearing yoga pants, but given that the size of your ass is even bigger than your sour attitude, I doubt you’re on your way to the gym. So, why don’t you calm your tits and stop huffing and puffing before somebody

Once a month, hold your yoga pants up to the light

The idea of “crossdressing” is so fucked up, man, like what do actual women wear? Not big frilly dresses. T-shirts and jeans, yoga pants, fast fashion bullshit. So what’s crossdressing? That’s what I already wear. It’s just an attitude. I like the frilly lacy stuff as much as the next guy but I’m not trying to support the petticoat-industrial complex. It’s in the soul, man.

My massage therapist is a ginger. A strawberry blonde. A redhead. A real one. Like me. Even though I’m lying facedown on the table, I can envision all that long, pretty hair hanging down her back, her sweet body and perfect round ass hugged by black yoga pants. She’s wearing running shoes—I can see them right now through the hole in the face holder—and her feet are small.

Sasha’s hair is freshly highlighted and her forehead is freshly frozen. She wears a new golden bracelet with the phrase Lean In hammered across the cuff, a VOYAGER hoodie, and designer yoga pants.

She needed to look good for her first PSL. She selected a pair of yoga pants, some cute sneakers, an oversized tee, layered with another oversized tee, a cardigan, and three different scarves. Fall was all about layers and Pumpkin Spice Lattes, and Melissa was stoked about both.

Food had been there when it seemed no one else had. Food also made me depressed and insecure.

He was right; I'd barely noticed him back then. Most of my memories of Tyler were fragments, held together by Austin. "See how you went and made things all awkward?" I accused, getting up from my swing and dusting off the back of my borrowed yoga pants. Undeterred, Tyler fell into step beside me as we made our way toward the park entrance. "Awkward or not, you should know I'm glad you're back." He flashed me a sheepish smile as he added, "And now that I'm older, I'll try to be a little more memorable.

I see the way she looks at you like you’re the best thing since yoga pants.

Whit found Suzanne stretched out on the chaise in their bedroom, laptop perched on her thighs. She had changed into her end-of-the-day outfit: yoga pants and one of his T-shirts, an ancient Bucknell one today. Whit, normally possessive, made an exception for her appropriation of his clothing; it was an intimacy that felt easy and right

How has she become one of those people who wears yoga pants all day? She used to make fun of those people. With their happiness maps and their gratitude journals and their bags made out of recycled tire treads. But now it seems possible that the truth about getting older is that there are fewer and fewer things to make fun of until finally there is nothing you are sure you will never be.

She might as well drink pumpkin spice lattes, carry Michael Kors, and wear yoga pants to the grocery store. Totally basic.

As one female journalist wrote it up: One of the greatest fashion worries that every woman experiences is the fear that their vagina isn’t plump enough. Isn’t visible enough to the public gaze. You might have a nice bum and boobs…and brain, but if you don’t have a bulging labia, what’s the point? But good news my flat-lipped sisters. If you’ve ever worried that your vagina just isn’t prominent enough through your shorts or yoga pants then worry no more. Indeed, for in 2017 the ‘push-up bra for your labia’ had been discovered.

Danvers appeared to be the sort of man a girl married before popping out two-point-five kids, buying a pair of yellow labs, and then trading in a convertible for a mini-van. The permanent yoga pants and the “world’s best mom” bumper stickers were a given.

Do I look that bad?” “No. You look fine.” “The whole yoga pants, old T-shirt, and messy hair things really works for you, huh?” I just smiled. The truth being that her whole existence worked for me. Jean breathing and moving and being herself was beautiful in every way.

But if your fuck-giving affects you and only you (such as not getting all tarted up just to go to the grocery store), then why should you care about what other people think? Let them have their opinions about your yoga pants and Ani DiFranco T-shirt; you’re comfortable and you won’t get hit on by the squirrelly checkout guy.