Let’s talk about crotch sweat, baby…. Did I lose you? It was a better hook when Salt-n-Pepa invited you to talk about sex, baby, in 1990. But I don’t want to talk about sex. I want to talk crotch sweat.
Yesterday morning I posted to Facebook about catching hell from the wee one about my running skirt. “Your running skirt is too short when your 21 month old stops you at the door with a grimace and says “Mama, go?? Go?? Pants!!! Pants ON!” Evidently she thought I needed pants. It was funny. Not hilarious. But a momentary “Ha!” so I quickly posted it as I hopped in the car on my way to the gym. By the time I got to the gym the post had several comments. Most of them of the “running skirt, huh?” variety.
As the day wore on I got a few more questions. I contemplated a “Running Skirts: Not Just for the Stepford Wives at the Tennis Club” kind of post. But then I realized I had a civic duty to break it down. There were gals out there (and dudes, I suppose. Hello, dudes, that do not run the opposite direction at the mention of crotch sweat. Umm. Yeah.) I owed it to these folks not to write a tongue-in-cheek answer.
So. Here we are.
Where do I start? The running skirt rules. Let me tell you why.
- Chub Rub. Nobody wants it. Unless you are a young gal or a lucky gal your thighs probably touch. This is not a huge problem when you are just casually walking down the street in a skirt. But start hustling? Yowza. You’ve got chub rub in no time. And once you’ve got it – it’s harder to get rid of than poison ivy. You think it’s gone and Boom! It’s back. You feel the burn.
- Compression shorts. They prevent the chub rub but they are not actually a fashion statement. Compressing the chub is not really … attractive. Unless your compression pants go down to your ankles they have to stop somewhere, right? And where they stop your body comes shooting out as if to shout “You can’t restrain me!! Here I am, I am your chub!!” The running skirt allows for compression shorts that no one has to see!
- Conceal the sweat. I sweat. Kind of a lot. I sweat on my face and my back and my head. I have been known to throw my hat at Emily after a long run just to hear her shriek “It’s soaking wet!!!” What I do not throw at anyone after a long run is my crotch. Sweat has a tendency to roll down the body, right? No matter where the moisture starts, whether it is from my head or my face or ample bazooms it seems to follow a path straight for my crotch. Have you ever seen one of those women that looks like she might have peed in her pants? Yeah. She is probably just sweaty. But it’s not all that cute. Because it looks like pee. And like crotch sweat. (I am going to say that a million more times to guarantee that when you google “crotch sweat” I come up. Because, really, we all have to have a goal, right?) So, the running skirt provides a perfect way to hide the sweat.
- Pee. Have you ever had a baby? I have had two. I am in a lucky minority. I can jump rope without peeing my pants. In fact ,just yesterday afternoon I exploded a jump rope at the gym. I like to do a tabata cycle of alternating jumping rope and burpees. It pretty much sucks but it is a good way to crank up your heart rate in four minutes. The whole time I jump rope I think “Don’tpeeDon’tpeeDon’tpee” and I contract my pelvic floor. (The entire time I do burpees I think “ThisfuckingsucksThisfuckingsucksThisfuckingsucks” but that has nothing to do with peeing my pants or babies. So, ladies, if you think you might pee a little – the running skirt is your friend. In fact, if I ever develop a post-partum exercise gear fashion line that will be my running skirt sales pitch – Running Skirts: They Hide the Pee.
- Lastly, I promise it really is the last reason – The Cute.
I mean c’mon. This is my all time favorite running skirt. The compression shorts are a little longer than most and it makes me feel like I have a little extra spring in my step.
Yep. Like I need extra pep.
What’s up Crotch Sweat? Oh hey, Chub, how you doin? I barely noticed you there underneath that adorable running skirt.
Running skirts deliver. They work. They just do. I resisted for a while. I thought they’d made me look like I was heading to the tennis club with Fifi and Mimsy for an afternoon smoothie and maybe we’d make it out to the tennis court. “Match point, Heather!”
I’m not a girl that wants to look cute at the gym. I’m not strong enough or fast enough to mingle with the hardcore gym rats, the least I can do is not look like I have no intention of sweating.
So, now you know my secret. The running skirt is my secret weapon. Because I sweat like … a whore in church. (When you’ve already said “crotch sweat” nine million times you don’t have to search for a simile that is not offensive. )
There’s the sweat. And yesterday’s eyeliner because I am not old enough to wash my face before I go to bed yet. I quit smoking and I exercise and I stopped drinking Bud Light all the live long day. One day I will moisturize and regularly wash my face.
And stop saying things like “crotch sweat” on the internet. One day. I promise.
I used to mow the grass in cut off Levi 501s and a bikini top. It was an excuse to strut back and forth in the yard and work on my tan. As time wore on those Levis got shorter and shorter but I got older and sassier and cared less and less about what was appropriate. I was mowing my damn grass, right? And wolf whistles happened less and less frequently. I’d take what I could get.
This summer I mowed the grass often just to have a few minutes to myself. The cut off Levis have long since been retired. These days I don’t put a tremendous amount of thought in to what I wear to mow the grass. None of my neighbors (the same neighbors that wave at me daily as I stroll down the street with my dog or run by in the morning with the jogging stroller) are likely to cat call anyway so who might I even try to impress?
But my grass mowing attire was at least Go Out in Public Even If It Is Only To The Gas Station worthy. I would be traipsing back and forth across my yard for thirty minutes. This warrants more care than the Run Down To The End Of The Driveway With The Trash Can Before You Miss The Trash Truck outfit.
And then this happened.
Look carefully. This woman reflected in the side of her car is wearing a velour sweatsuit with the pants pegged so as to not drag along the ground and Crocs. Let me repeat that. I have PEGGED THE LEGS OF MY VELOUR SWEAT PANTS. And I have chosen to wear socks and Crocs. Now I think that some kind of a tool (any kind, really) can elevate a woman’s hotness. But let’s face it. A leaf blower is not much of a tool.
I think I have given up. It has happened.
I remember (as long ago as yesterday when I would not have dreamed of doing this!) looking at women and thinking “what the hell is wrong with you? You have a pulse, for fuck’s sake, brush your hair” and now look at me. What am I doing? Perhaps this has been a lesson in “Judge Not Less Ye Be Judged.”
Granted, I have a terrible cold. My youngest looks like a refugee and is currently wearing a shirt belonging to my oldest and flowered pants. Her baby is being toted around in a towel. I haven’t really made much in the way of dinner in two days and I am running on caffeine and Dayquil. (Speaking of running, I knocked back two slugs of Dayquil this morning, before I left for my run and set a PR for a 5K distance. Not an all time PR, but a since I have been injured PR. Wheee! Bronchodilators for the Win!!)
I am not at my best. I’m not sleeping. Showering is a successful day. I am spent and cranky and not looking for a hot date. But pegged velour sweatpants?
I can do better than that. I can. And I will. You have my word.
I’m a wreck. But my yard looks nice.
So, how are you? Have you caught yourself doing anything mortifying lately?
I like to mow instead of rake. It’s like vacuuming your yard.
There are moments in your life you need wisdom. You need consolation. You need white wine and M&Ms and flowers and entire pizzas. You call your mother and your girlfriends. You rally the troops.
I got my hair cut. And I hate it. It’s just hair. It grows back. An old friend reminded me that life is an adventure and growing your hair back is a wild one. Let’s not forget how fun it is to watch other people react and say “Oh, wow! You cut your hair…”
I didn’t mean to cut it all off so short. But you can’t get a short hair cut fixed without cutting it shorter. So, here I am. Brand new Kelly. Sheesh.
I feel like I am wearing a wig. A wig I don’t actually hate… but a wig. Eh. It’ll grow on me Ha. My sense of humor is intact.
Ballet flats and a ballerina bun do not evidently a ballerina’s physique make.
Eh. Neither do peanut m&ms apparently. Baby steps.
Shame. I don’t really have any. To that end when I do something particularly inane, something that might actually embarrass a person capable of feeling shame, I like to share it with facebook. So everyone can delight in my foibles.
This morning I left the house in a scrunchie. Twice actually. The first time it was not even quite 7:30 in the morning and I was picking up breakfast items from Weaver Street Market just down the street. I was going to let that slide. But then I did it again. I was making a habit of this. Scrunchie wearing.
I am not the only woman on the planet guilty of this heinous crime. But I refuse to allow myself to let Hillary Clinton guide my fashion choices. Stacey & Clinton, yes, Hillary Clinton, no. So, that’s no excuse.
I don’t even know how it is that I still own a scrunchie. And when I tossed it out on to the internet this morning I didn’t expect to get a reaction. But it seems people feel strongly about the scrunchie. And for the most part, they feel appalled that I own one. I am a girl that wears cropped overalls for fuck’s sake. So, for me to shock and appall my friends with my fashion choices, this is not an easy task.
I did two things today that were unusual. I wore a scrunchie while not washing my face. Out in to the world.
One can see from this picture I am also wearing Vibrams, a bold fashion choice.
And then, I succumbed to peer pressure. The fashion conscious among us, you will be pleased to know this…. I threw that fucker away. It was the last one. I have had it for at least twenty years. The rubberband inside that scrunchie must have been made of steel. And there, in the dog park, I tossed it.
The folks at the dog park were treated to my smiling face sans scrunchie.
"Have some humanity. Haven't any of you ever had a dream?" ~Tangled
Big day for me. This morning I set myself some out loud Life goals. And then I pitched my scrunchie. I’m not sure it is gonna help me right away. But as soon as I stop carrying around this basketball this shit is gonna get REAL.
Just not yet. I’ve got about seven more weeks of being barefoot and pregnant.
And really when you look this hot, who would notice one lousy scrunchie?