I went running in the pouring rain this morning. Usually I would see that it was raining and mumble something like, “Oh, heck no!” and put my lazy butt back to bed. However, I was meeting Janna this morning and she runs without exception. In fact, she puked last week and then ran 5 miles. I puke once and stay in bed for twelve days yelling at Michael to bring more soup.
But I digress. It was raining. I knew I would have to still go out in it so I got up and started getting dressed. The pants I wanted to wear were in my suitcase, (no, I haven’t unpacked yet. What’s it to you?) and I didn’t want to wake Michael rummaging around for them. I had to put on what I could find without making any noise. My only option was the pants I hate the most. They don’t fit right and are quite uncomfortable. I don’t know why I haven’t cast them out of my wardrobe yet. Probably because I’m lazy. (Refer to my suitcase still being packed after being home for 5 days.)
Halfway through our run, my pants started to fall down. They were soaked by this point and were feeling really heavy, like my legs were wrapped in ill-fitting wet towels. I had my dog’s leash around my waist, rain pelting me in the face so fiercely I felt like the drops were sapping my eyesight, my shoes were making a squishing noise, and my pants wouldn’t stay on my waist. I would pull them up but because they were rain-soaked, the fabric just stretched like a rubber band up to my waist without budging from my legs. They were suctioned onto my skin. After fighting with them for half a mile, I gave up. I just let the waistband fall to it’s preferred resting place and let the quarter-moon shine. Having rain dribble into your crack is not as refreshing as you might think.
A few lessons can be learned from this:
1. Don’t be running buddies with a die-hard.
2. Unpack your stupid suitcase in a timely manner.
3. Get rid of those darn pants.
I apologize to the drivers whose headlights illuminated my rear. At least you have a story to tell your coworkers today.
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