Last week, my lower half was in revolt.
Below the belt, I was all calamity.
I'll spare certain details, but I was betrayed by my own special downstairs on three occasions: two of them are PG-13 enough for me to relate here with the kind of reckless abandon I should be wary of, given how 50% of me was operating on its own rogue agenda last week.
While futzing with signage atop a 20 foot ladder, the crotch of my pants blew out while two female colleagues watched from below.
I hope I provided a nice show.
Given that I didn't realize the extent of the blow-out until hours later, I can only imagine.
In a mad dash to the gym, I accidentally grabbed a pair of black swimming trunks that I thought were gym shorts. Upon realizing this changing in the locker room, I decided to roll with it, rather than make another mad dash home to get an appropriate pair of shorts.
Again, I hope I provided a nice show.
Given that it was a crowded Saturday, I got an ocean of "Oh, get her" looks as I attempted to workout while keeping my junk properly stowed.