I sure did crave my morning runs, especially after negotiating a temporary move, recent job resignation and two ninjas to wrangle all day. They also appeared to make my saggy what-is-a-squat? mama booty a bit perkier. Plus, NOTHING could beat the endorphin rush after a few miles of nothing but feet to pavement and a little Pandora action.
I generally had a 30-40 minute window after cleaning up from breakfast, feeding a ravenous infant and corraling toddler turds. So I was in a hurry. I threw on an old Nike wick-away workout shirt from my B-cup days which conveniently enjoyed riding up to bare my winter fat-tire bulge (isn’t that a beer?). I fatefully left on the $7 leggings I bought from Marshall’s because I didn’t have time to change. A side note as to why I had those in my wardrobe: because I crazily though it wise to try out the whole riding boots, leggings, sweater craze. Except all I had were the leggings.
So anyway, the air is cool and fresh, this horsey is read to run. Despite my running app that wasn’t cooperating, I had some good tunes going and nothing else mattered. I NEEDED THIS RUN. And I’m off. Sprinting like I’m chasing after some maniac who stole the last bottle of red wine hidden in my cupboard…so that’s pretty fast. Yet, with every glorious stride, I feel those frigging “I’m not 20 anymore so why did I buy these” leggings sliding. Slithering. Shimmying DOWN my lower back. Oh no. Is anyone seeing this?! I pan left, I peer right. I’m panicking as I glance behind me. Thank goodness the coast is clear. I hike them up and drop some F bombs. Then ask God for mercy and more material to cover all that jelly….all while maintaining full stride, thank you very much!
I really should have known I had too much booty for those pants a couple weeks ago. I knelt down to take clothes out of the washer. Apparently, I was rockin’ some plumber crack because Bubba walked up and said “dirty, old butt!” as he rubbed it. Well thank you, son. This has been quite insightful. While I did manage to shower this morning, I still appreciate your brutal honesty.
Back to present- I couldn’t turn back. There was no time. So I soldiered on, but not before giving those horrible pants another ‘I mean business’ tug and scouting for potential traffic. Those strides felt freeing, I was flying, floating through the air. Those pants must have felt free, too. Down they came, little by little. and I felt a brisk rush of air in places so forbidden I surely began to blush. I begrudgingly speed walked home, feeling defeat. Hubs asks why I seem irritated. I give him the highlight reel, then turn to hormonal mush babbling about how I just want some clothes that fit, and under my breath threatening to burn those stupid $7 leggings. And what did I do with the leggings you ask? I promptly put them in the Goodwill pile for someone else to worry over.
1) I will not dress like a tween (which is ironically who those leggings must have been made for)
2) When Ninja #1 not only notices but comments on your crack cleavage, pay attention and THROW whatever you are wearing AWAY. IMMEDIATELY.