“From the cradle to the coffin underwear comes first.”
– Bertolt Brecht
As I made my way around the track, sans Margot, someone or rather something caught my eye. My eyesight, never 20/20 and at the time worsened by sweat, took a minute to adjust, and my brain took an even longer minute to process before I could coherently form the thought, “Are those…knickers?”
And lo, minions, they were. Sort of.
The girl just ahead of me on the track was made up to a ludicrous degree, which (since she was running) looked rather bad; her mascara was starting to run and the carefully applied roses in her cheeks to, er, wilt. Her hair was a shade of blonde not seen in nature, and her skin an equally improbable degree of orange. She was wearing an extremely low tank top that provided no, ahem, support as she moved. But what truly baffled me was that she was wearing a skirt to jog in.
I call it a skirt. Truthfully it barely fit the description, ending as it did just south of the law. Loincloth is more appropriate. And there’s no need to accuse me of clutching my pearls and prudery, if you’d seen it you’d agree. The trouble with this skirt/loincloth was that every time she took a step it rode up to reveal her choice of underwear, which I will only characterize by saying they must have been desperately uncomfortable to run in…if you know what I mean.
I’ve seen people at gyms spending more time gazing at themselves in a mirror or strutting around the machinery to attract attention, but all that paled in comparison. Alright, perhaps I am pearl clutching and getting a bit Victorian Aunty in my old age, but honestly? Knickers on display? At the jogging track? Really?