Summer in Arkansas is like taking a walk in hell plus a little more humidity.
Yesterday was hell in more ways than one, because I got stuck in my spandex.
After a great workout, the newly determined me decided to head home and finish up some yard work since I was already nasty. Why waste a shower, right? I drug out the plants that were nearly dead on my back porch, grabbed my neighbor’s shovel (because I broke ours), and headed out. I dug through our “soil”, which is 99% clay, gravel, old bricks, and a dash of dirt, and made new graves homes for my plants that will probably be headed to plant heaven in a few days. I washed my hands in the hose, slipped my shoes off in the garage, and headed inside.
This is when I learned that superglue is made out of sweat, potting soil, and mulch, with a dash of sunscreen for extra stickiness.
The fun started when I got to my bathroom. I sat down on the edge of my bath tub and tried to take off my workout tank. Nope. Wouldn’t budge. I tried again. Nope. I was starting to sweat again, so I decided to take off my workout capris. No. The waist band wouldn’t even pull out a centimeter. The superglue/sweat combo had taken hold and I was starting to panic.
I laid down on the bathroom floor, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly to try to calm down and quit sweating. Slowly, I was able to roll down the waist band of my pants an inch. Hallelujah!! Progress.
It stopped when I got a bit lower. I’ll skip over that part because there was wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Since I gave up on the bottoms, I decided to take off my the second skin now attached to my torso. I was going to have to pull it from the bottom up and it wasn’t going to be pretty. I started to try to move the fabric away from my skin. It wouldn’t move. I burst into hysterical laughter. There weren’t many other options at this point.
Finally, I decided to just go for it. I grabbed the bottom of my tank and pulled as hard as I could up and over my head. It worked…sorta. The bra liner on the inside was still firmly attached to my chest and I was stuck with the rest of the tank over my head.
This is when I became convinced I was going to die in my spandex and my hubby’s last vision of me would be on the bathroom floor tangled up in dirty, sweaty workout clothes.
I pulled the tank down so I could see, and walked into the closet to get a plastic clothes hanger. I pried it under my bralette thingamajiggy, stuck my hand in between my chest and the fabric, and pulled as hard a I could.
I was free.
Of my top.
I had to rest for a bit. I’m in good shape, but this was a workout I wasn’t prepared for. I hadn’t carb loaded or stretched or hydrated properly.
The clothes hanger thing had worked for my top, so I tried it with my pants. I pried the waistband away from my hips, grabbed the waistband, and pulled. Inch by inch, I got those suckers off.
I laid on the bathroom floor, grateful for a second chance at life. Grateful for the hot shower I was about to take. Grateful for the wine I was about to drink. Grateful that no one had caught this on film.
Like butt cheek sweat in August, this is for certain: I’m done with yard work this summer.
*The photo is not me, but I feel your pain, lady.