here we go.

I’ve never had a wardrobe malfunction in the middle of a run.  I mean, sure okay fine, I’ve had to go to the bathroom really badly and either held it until the pain of doing so was too much and by that time I am just putting my key into the door (I actually am pretty good at this, which bothers me on some level), or I am off in the woods pretending to “blend in” despite my hot pink long sleeve.  I run pretty far into the woods on such occasions, as I am absolutely convinced somebody somewhere is looking out their window at a weird angle.

Sunday was the exception.  Sunday, taught me a lesson in love.  When it’s over, it’s really over and it’s not going to get un-over.  And if you don’t let it be over when it should be over, your relationship will be exposed in the most public of ways.  Let me start with the Reader’s Digest version of this Love Story:  I own TWO pair of these 3/4-length running pants, whose name I shall not mention but rest assured I wrote a review.  Both pair had seams rip on the rear zipper pocket, which I left unattended thinking that for the rest of their lives, I would make due with long shirts or my windbreaker.  No bigs.

Well, it became bigs, because halfway through the Mid-Winter 10-miler Classic in windy, freezing Cape Elizabeth, Maine, my relationship with these knickers unwound seam by seam.

Oh yes.  Somewhere between mile 5 and the finish line, the back zipper hole announced my booty to the world but what’s worse, the upper inseam - alright fine, the crotch - busted 4 inches down my leg, leaving the left thigh exposed with every push-off of the right leg.  I literally busted through my pants.  At this point, though, my mind was so not focused on this snafu until I crossed the finished line, felt intense chaffage coupled with windburn in the netherlands and, upon quick assessment, sat down on the frozen tundra until Pete came back with my pants I (luckily!) packed in his car on my way to the race! 

This is coming from the twin who cannot possibly consider going to the bathroom in a water bottle on board a French tour bus because they refuse to stop (that would be my twin, Mary), or pull off under an overpass at a red light at midnight because I just can’t hold it any longer (ahem, nameless best friend), or forget to wear key undergarment to work and just “deal” by wearing a scarf (former amazing industrious co-worker whom I continue to admire for her creativity).  

I’ve always been a little jealous of those people who just deal with it without much thought to what other people might think.  I’ve never allowed the situation to occur because I’ve preemptively made sure these things don’t happen.  But sometimes they do.  My unwillingness to discard the broken apparel 10 months ago just wasn’t in the cards and suddenly I was inducted in the “Here We Go” contingent, and it’s amazingly exhilarating to choose to own whatever it is that happens, rather than getting embarrassed or feel the need to hide/quit/make excuses.  “My butt is showing with every stride, here we go...”, “My inner thigh is smiling at the people behind me, here we go...”  I embraced it.  I owned it.  I thought-dared anyone to run beside me to inform me of the malfunction.  I had a few witty lines. I wanted to use them.  This was fun.

Don’t get me wrong, I learned my lesson about letting go of things when they’re begging for it, but in the event I am left to be exposed, I choose exposure.  It’s kind of fun.

x-to-the-here-we-go,

KAY