If you've followed my blog for any length of time, or if you've read my book, you know that the battle between me and my mouth is very real.
From cliche's, which I slaughter to pieces like some sort of harebrained butcher, to awkward small-talk exchanges that are so heavily wrapped in social anxiety, I invariably say something that earns me a furrowed brow and a silent look of confusion.
And sometimes I just get my words all jumbled up.
We went to Florida last week for a family vacation, and on the way there, I pondered whether I'd fit in my swimsuits or not (I did, but only the super-stretchy ones.)
I didn't wonder whether my foot fit in my mouth. But, alas, it does.