I have a love/hate relationship with my bike shorts. I hate that they’re so tight. I really hate that the padding in the crotch area make me feel like I’m wearing one of those old-fashioned sanitary napkins from the 1950s. I do, however, love that the padding protects my precious parts from the bike seat.
This morning Saxon and I were going bike riding so I had to suck it up and wiggle into my tight bike shorts. I had them about halfway on when something went dreadfully wrong. I pulled the front of the shorts up to my boobs. The back of the shorts wouldn’t even begin to cover my butt.
I immediately morphed into what I call my fat mode. This is a very dangerous place. I waddled and hopped around the bedroom, pulling on the back of the shorts, growling and crying at the same time.
“Saxon!” I yelled. “Come here!”
She appeared. When she saw my antics she looked alarmed. “What’re you doing?”
“I got too fat for my shorts. I can’t get them over my butt. Why didn’t you tell me my butt had grown?”
I interrupted her, “Why didn’t you tell me my ass was so huge?”
“Look! I can’t get these shorts over my huge ass!”
“Help me! Don’t just stand there gawking! Help me get them on!”
“Honey, you can’t—”
“What the hell’s the matter with you! Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you warn me about my ice cream consumption?”
“Oh, no! Now I can’t get them off! I can’t get them on and I can’t get them off! Call 911. Tell them to bring the jaws of life,” I sobbed.
“Listen to me!” Saxon screamed. She got my attention. “You are trying to put your shorts on backwards. That’s all that’s wrong. They’re backwards.”
“Oh,” I said. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
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