Slow Rider

I have a streak of tactile defensiveness in my nature. I love the look of sleek, tucked in shirts, and I sincerely believe that camisoles are the most amazing piece of clothing ever created, but along with both of these items comes the dreaded "slow ride."

When first donned, everything looks great, feels great. Make a motion, sit down or stand up, however, and suddenly your shirt (or shirts) or a bunchy, jumbled, riding up mess. You're left with two options... spend the day constantly pulling, prodding or otherwise adjusting OR do what I do: channel a blue haired senior citizen and tuck your offending items into your underwear.

Oh yes, horror of horrors, the waistband of my pants just isn't doing a good enough job holding everything in place. I've now drafted the elastic of my undergarments into active duty. Am I proud? No. Is my mind resting easy because there's a place for everything, and finally, everything is in its place? Oh, my friends, yes.

Each time I take a trip to the water closet I look myself disdainfully in the eyes knowing that I am voluntarily choosing to commit the faux pas's of faux pas's - a crime best suited for nursing home lounges; however, the ride has stalled, and I'm sitting pretty with a smooth, sleek and bunch-resistant top.