A Thong Story

8:45am. Sara Barielles cooing softly into my ear, which 43 seconds later turns into a screeching triumphant tumble out of bed. Remove my Gap polka dot melon shorts. Drop the drawers. Reach into my plastic drawers purchased for $7.99 at Target to find just one clean pair of skivvies left as a result or prolonged procrastination to do my laundry which turns out to be the last of my newly purchased bundle o' undies from Aerie. Eyes closed, pull them up, and reach for the nearest pair of athletic bottoms. Find yoga pants (yes!), throw on sweatshirt, lazily shove my feet into my adidas running shoes, run my fingers through my hair, wipe off mascara with make-up remover (who actually removes their mascara before bed?) (okay...everyone) and run (walk) out the door (like I care about getting to Cell&Molecular Biology on time).

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Once the bitter 33 degree air hits my face, I'm almost instantly awake. Is it possible to get some mechanical device that blows 33 degree air into my face at 8:45 in the morning? I'm walking. Walking, walking, walking... hold on! Something feels weird. Oh, pesky wedgie. Look around me and find only one person in sight. Pretend to twist my arm behind me to feel for something in the side pocket of my backpack to untwist said wedgie. But...the dang sucker won't let go of my chops. Less obviously pull and tug. And then it hits me...

I'm wearing a THONG (sorry for you TMI cringers). A thong. A foreign entity to me and to my bum. And not only is it creeping up there, but with every step, it's letting everything go every which way it wants and I can't help but turn around to check if anyone can notice that there is only a single layer covering my rump. I hit myself for not taking the extra seven point four seconds to check my American Eagle shopping bag online to check that I checked every box I meant to check.

Class ends fifty five minutes later (in which I wish that for once, I'd slept through Sara darling's voice) and I continue to tug-a-lug all the way to the gym. Spot Niklaas near the Liberal Arts building. Half run, half skip up to him and the first thing I say is, "I'm wearing a THONG!" and ignore the fact that the population density at ten in the morning on campus is greater than any square mile in Japan. His eyebrows raise and of course, no male could ever understand what this exactly entails (a perpetual pain in the rear flossing job). His empathy is lost on me and I continue my way to the gym.

Once at the gym, I realize what this means. Working out. In tight yoga pants that aren't forgiving in their slightest and especially unforgiving on the elliptical. Couldn't help but notice the men's fitness class all using the weights directly behind my elliptical. Try to pretend I'm not aware of them and turn up the volume on my iPod to drown out their huff and puffs all elliptical ride long.

Come home. Promptly throw uncomfortable morning ruining thong in trash. I mean no offense to those who love the things. In fact, I applaud you. A whole lot. But, clearly, they will never be for me. Underwear lines? Not a care in the world about them.