Recycling: When Life Gives You Wedgies

So it's been a couple weeks since my last post, and sadly, I don't have time to write much of anything right now...school has stolen my soul! To keep my loyal fans entertained, I'm "recycling" an older post from the blog my sister and I used to have (It Has Raisins In It). Please enjoy this bit of deja-vu:

WARNING! This post, while trying to keep it rated PG, contains material that might be offensive to readers whose iPods are limited to Kenny G, Barbara Streisand, and Michael Bolton.

The Wedgie. It turns a lady into a man, a man into a Golden Girl, and forces imminent humiliation upon whoever it attacks. It could seriously be the most horrendous clothing experience of our existence - leg warmers and the Dickie following close behind.

In my family, there are two types of wedgies:

1) Wedgie (wej-ee) n. The natural occurrence of undergarment bunching between the buttocks. May also go by the name of "Snuggie" if you are under 8 years old, or are in the immediate family of my sister-in-law.

2) Melvin (mel-vin) n. A super wedgie in which the undergarments say hello to the outside world. These are usually brought on by gym class ridicule or an extremely bumpy water slide.

With this distinction made, I am prepared to tell you about my recent wedgie experience.

The day was doomed to failure from the get-go. My newly cut bangs decided to time warp to 1984, and my bright eyeshadow decided to follow suit. Hoping that my weird luck would stay back with stirrup stretch pants and Duran Duran, I began my 20 minute trek across campus thinking the glass was half-full.

But then glass started to empty...

Precisely seven minutes into my walk, I began to feel my undaroos creeping where they did not belong. Whether it was my stylish, yet constricting jeans, or sassy walk coupled with heels that were the cause of the unwanted movement, I may never know. It only took three minutes for a mature wedgie to develop, and had I been wearing overalls within feet of my older brother, I would have suspected a melvin.

I have experienced quite a few award-winning, may-i-have-the-envelope-please-wedgies in my day, but this one surpassed them all. The wedgie of 2004 caused by an awkward layer of underwear, thick tights, and spandex pants was definitely the most painful. And the most recent melvin of Fall '05 with my sweats was practically painless, but far too visible. My current campus wedgie was the perfect combination of the two: maximum pain with the greatest visibility.

The Ultimate Embarrassment.

So there I was, looking like a blast from the past with the Hulk Hogan of wedgies, trying to find a way to rid myself of this humiliation. I figured I had 2 options:

Option #1: The Pick.

Um...hello...unless you want to commit social suicide you never, ever just up and pick your wedgie. First, you are admitting that you have a wedgie, and second, you are drawing even more unwanted focus to your derriere. Neither of which will help your self esteem. Also, if you are unsuccessful with your initial pick, further picks will be needed and you will be reduced to a monkey. While I like monkeys as much as the next average Jane, we have come too far in evolution for me to resort to such primitive behavior.

Option #2: The Natural Release.

Most of the time the wedgie will eventually work itself out of your fanny naturally. Altering your walk usually does the trick - but for those who oppose to walking with more length between their legs and taking wider strides should probably opt for something different. Allowing the wedgie to find it's way back home will also provide you with extra time to find a restroom or wide-trunked tree for a worry-free pick. 60% of the time, it works every time. Stats don't lie, folks. My vote goes to natural relief.

So with approximately 13 minutes left before reaching my next class, I started taking longer steps with high hopes that my wedgie would go away. But with a group of cute guys feet behind my rear, I couldn't bare to look completely ridiculous. Alas, my steps were just not big enough to release the wedgie. I was forced to suffer with my shame. I finished my trudge to class with my puffy bangs close to the ground, and my glass practically empty.

I am happy to say that I am no longer a victim of the super wedgie, though my discomfort will not soon be forgotten. I tried to cheer myself up today by watching the horrible performance of Britney Spears opening for the MTV Music Awards. Throughout the entire song, she stopped lip syncing multiple times, had distasteful dance moves, and looked confused and/or disinterested. This got me thinking. Maybe Ms. Spears wasn't stoned at all (like I had originally hypothesized). Maybe those tiny shorts had given her her own mondo-wedgie, and she was just weighing the best way to get rid of it... You should have gone with Option #1, Brit. I'm living proof that attempting Option #2 in heels is a bust.