Remember last month, when I made fun of that girl at the Diner who was showing a full two inches of her butt crack? Let’s just agree, karma is a bitch. (I mean that both literally and figuratively – Alan’s parents’ dog is named Karma, and she is technically a bitch. True story.)
Anyway… my covert photo-taking of the DinerGirl came back to haunt me in yoga.
When doing laundry the other week, I realized the Item that dictates when I need to do a load is my fleece pants. I practically live in them all winter and I only have one pair I consider perfection. (I have two other pairs that are runners-up, but they aren’t even in the same ballpark as my favorites.)
I had a moment of panic: What will I do when this pair wears out???
You know what I’m talking about.
I decided to guard against disaster. I went to REI.com (where I’d purchased this pair six years ago), praying they still stocked them. Alas, they didn’t, but they had something similar. On sale. So – still reeling from the thought that I might have to live without my favorite pants – I ordered three pairs. Did I mention they were on sale? It’s like fate WANTED me to be clad in fleece. (Did you hear that, Alan?)
Some three days later, they arrived at my door and I did backflips to realize they fit perfectly. The waistband was a bit lower than my favorites, but not exactly low riders. I thought nothing of it. (You should though, because I started this story talking about karma coming back to bite me in the ass.)
So last week I headed to yoga in my new fleece pants. It wasn’t ideal – I’m generally too hot to wear anything but light capris, but I was running late and didn’t have time to change. “They’ll work,” I told myself.
And they did – until I did my first Down Dog.
You know how sometimes your shoes eat your socks? With every step they tug your socks down a half-inch, until your sock is smushed like an accordion between your arch and your heel? Well, that’s kind of what my pants were doing.
As I stretched in my Down Dog, I felt air on my lower back. I slid my hand around to check, and – sure enough – my pants had tugged down a bit and were riding just on the top of my hips. When we stood back up, I tugged them back up. But my underwear didn’t come with them.
Let’s repeat this move a few more times. Within ten minutes, my underwear were bunched up on my thighs, not even remotely covering my ass. I imagine it looked like I had a diaper on. And still, every time we ended in a Down Dog (which – in case you’re not familiar, is pretty much every other move when it comes to yoga), my pants were creeping lower.
I kept pulling them up, but there was more than one time when I reached back and found that we were entering Plumber’s Territory.
I considered leaving class rather than endure an hour of tug-of-war with my waistband. But in the end I decided my workout was more important than grossing out the women behind me. Mainly because I’m that dedicated. But also because prissy yogis get on my nerves.
Namaste, suckers.
[In somewhat related news, Alan arrived home one night to find me wearing my blouse from the office paired with my new fleece pants because I’d stalled out halfway through changing clothes. In full seriousness, he said, “You look nice. Did you stay dressed up for me?” Which either proves that men can’t tell the difference between flannel and foulard, or that Alan is clearly a breast-man, or that I’ve completely broken his spirit.]
pithypants 