Sometimes being an adult is hard.
For instance, when you have to come home to let the plumber in because your damn geyser is leaking. And of course, you're home now, there's no way you're going to get back in the car and brave Sandton traffic to go to gym. So instead, you put on a sports bra and short shorts (you're at home, ain't nobody looking at that muffin top now) and flip through the 4 channels that local tv has to offer.
You land on Days Of Our Lives and realise that ABSOLUTELY NOTHING has changed in the plot in the last 10 years. Hope and John are once again imprisoned by diabolical Stefano Dimera (I mean, really? You're freaking cops, how do you manage to get captured so many times?!). For a moment you contemplate how sad your life is for knowing all these characters and their backstories... but you shrug it off and continue to work out in front of the telly - doing bicep curls and shoulder presses with little weights.
And then it dawns on you... that you have mutated... into a desperate housewife.
To be fair, when I conveyed this story to a friend, he said I could only be labelled a desperate housewife if I had started hitting on the plumber.
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