Photo courtesy of web

I’ve been absent. Again. And feeling horribly guilty about it.

But I have an excuse.

I caught a bad cold, that had me laid up in bed, gasping in a consumptive haze for hubby to come home early to relieve me of my diapering duties.

Then, I turned 40. You’ll be surprised to hear that, in the vaunted words of Ronald McDonald, I’m lovin’ it. Give me a burger and fries with my newfound “Don’t f with me, I’m 40” status.

And finally, I’ve been organizing details for our move in August and preparing for a giant stoop sale this weekend.

So I’m announcing my blogging comeback with another culturally inspired, sophisticated post.

The subject today?

Bottoms.

Sitting comfortably? Right, let’s begin.

First, a rant. What is the deal with these young boys wearing their trousers below their arse? I know I sound like an old biddy and I shall swing my chewed up handbag at anyone who declares otherwise. But the other day I was walking behind two such bepantzled young men, and aside from the fact that I wonder how these young ‘uns can keep their trousers up and walk at the same time – I find it a revolting and fascinating site to behold.

Am I an just aging old fogey?

Or am I subconsciously on the lookout for customers to buy my newest invention?

You see, right before I got that cold and then turned 40 and then unfortunately threw up the entire contents of my birthday dinner the next morning, ushering in a new era of reformed responsibility, I went for a run. Two runs, actually, in the peaceful, tree-lined park several blocks down from our home.

I was feeling good about myself, as I gently jogged past the playground, casually bumping into my upstairs neighbor.

“Beautiful evening for it,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, as if I’d been doing this for years.

In truth, this was the first time I’d attempted to exercise in over a year, since before little B was born. And while I was surprised at being able to do an entire loop of the park (it’s small) without pulling a Wicked Witch of the West and dissolving into a puddle of steaming sweat, I soon realized that my body was in need of something a little special. Something not on the market, to my knowledge. Something that could potentially be my next career venture. And something that perhaps these young boys with their bottoms hanging out of their trousers could do with.

An arse bra.

You see, before my run, I had no idea that my little buns were in need of support.

[Apologies to hubby, who to my surprised delight, expressed mild concern about the content of this post.  He would like me to keep an aura of mystery about my womanly bits. Hubby: I’m sorry, but you have no say in the matter.]

My little unexercised booty took on a life of its own during that run, causing me mild consternation and slowing down my run time by about a minute. Of course, I thought to myself! The jogging bra was invented to help women for a reason. And now, the arse bra shall not only provide another essential service to exercising women, but perhaps start a whole new trend among the strange, bepantzled young men roaming our streets.

So bottoms up…er….cheers…to new inventions, turning 40 and a more pert future.

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