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Saturday, July 26, 2008


Can you believe it? I celebrated a "late twenties" birthday just a few short days ago (sorry, not saying the number - you'll have to guess) and I must say, there are quite a few age-related bodily quirks that I've been noticing lately.

For instance, take my underpants.

Well, wait. Don't actually take them. Just listen to my story.

Now before I continue, I understand that maybe this is a bit too much on the TMI side in some respects... but despite my better judgement, I'm going to go ahead and assume that a large percentage of our readers do indeed wear underpants, so they'll be able to relate quite well. However, if you happen to be one of the few sans-briefers at the present time, you might want to stop reading, as this is an underpants-wearing-only post.

Now to the meat of it.

Sadly, I've recently deduced through trial and error that there is no such thing as "underpants shrinkage," but rather, something I like to refer to as, "RBG" or "Rapid Butt Growth." You know how it is... you throw on a pair of underpants, put on your work gear and about 1/8 of the way through your day, those suckers are already creepin' up your crack like no tomorrow. I mean, if you really wanted to go through this kind of maddening undergarment snafu, you would've just donned a thong to your 9 to 5-er, right? Thongs are perma-wedgies, so your discomfort would be naturally understood from the start.

Oh, and for the record - I've evaluated my laundering techniques and have determined that I'm doing everything correctly in that department. So that pretty much cancels out the underwear shrinkage theory.

Perhaps this increase in trunk junk has something to do with the fact that I eat a large Mexican meal just about every other day (see previous post entitled, "My Burrito Issue"). I'm sure there are lots of those "calorie-thingies" in each spicy delicacy I throw down. Or maybe my lack of exercise has something to do with it. Who really knows for sure.

Either way, I've slowly come to realize that my RBG could merely be a bitch slap courtesy of father time. It could be genetic, it could be my body's way of adapting to my surroundings, or it might simply be something I have to learn to deal with over the course of my life...

...and to that I say,

"RBG - come and get me."

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