That’s right – I am talking underwear people. I have been fighting a battle now for over two years. A silent battle of wills - so to speak. I will that my underwear will stay in its intended place while I run. However, the underwear has repeatedly refused to remain decent. The underwear appears to know where to “wear” on my last nerve. I have tried brief, bikini, thong, boy-cut (worst decision EVER), high-leg and so many other options that my drawer looks more like the discount bin at Victoria Secrets than an underwear drawer. My more “earth mama” friends have suggested commando, but that is ultimately just not me. I prefer that protective barrier between me and my clothing. I just prefer my undies to have some measure of manners.
Confuse by this rant? Let me detail to you my worst experience ever. I have a typical outside run ahead me. Not my long run, but I have at least an hour + ahead of me outside. Without thinking about it, that morning I put on the cutest pair of boy-cut undies. They matched my bra, why wouldn’t I have picked them? Oh, let me tell you why! Boy-cut or boy shorts cover your tushie more than let’s say a bikini would, but not so much that you feel your wearing granny panties. Herein lays the problem. You see, cotton granny panties cover you butt, but they follow the shape of it completely. As you sweat they just stick to your butt – completely, but respectful. Boy shorts allow a little tushie to hang out below. As you run that butt of yours moves, really moves and those cute little boy shorts start going for a ride. Now if let’s say your on a public and popular trail where attractive people are and mothers are walking their infants, its perhaps bad form to pick your underwear. So I continue on thinking and hoping that at some point I will dislodge - what now feels like yards of fabric from my buttocks. No rest for the wicked, it is apparently “Everyone Be Outside On This Damn Path Day”. 30 Minutes have passed and I am almost ½ through my run. I decide that perhaps if I run faster the underwear will dislodge themselves or at the very worst I’ll get back to the privacy of my car that much faster. WRONG. My underwear feels as if its convinced my innocent track pants to participate in this torture. My wedgie has now transformed so some sort of hybrid Melvin/Atomic wedgie. Did I mention that even at my top speed I am also the slowest runner on the planet? The old, weak and infirm taunt me as the wiz by me on their Rascals. Bastards! Not only am I my normal sweaty self, but I am about 99% certain that I am sporting a fashion faux pas – starts with a camel and ends with an –o-. Thank god my running pants are black! I arrive at my car, blessing the stars that there is virtually no one in sight and I immediately adjust myself with no subterfuge. Ah the relief…and the giggles. Not my giggles, no that would be from the local high school track team that has just passed my car to start their nightly run. Go ahead and laugh my pretties. I can see your panty-lines from here and I have a pretty good idea where there going to be headed.
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