On Thongs and Bicep Curls

Or Patriarchy and Cardio

I used to say there are 5 categories of people I don’t trust: People who choose not to eat cheese; People who love horses so much they start to look like one; People who pump their fists to music; Marathon runners (so ambitious!); And people who say, “I love the gym.” As I have gotten older, I realized this cut out most of my functioning adult friends, so I have had to ease up on many of these structures, except the cheese thing because I can’t associate with monsters and the horse thing because…eww.

Also see “Enid” from Charles in Charge. Only slightly less jarring than Scott Baio himself.

I understand better now that taking care of one’s mental and physical health is important. I had the fortune (turned misfortune) of being a teen who ate chocolate cake in our high school cafeteria so often that the lunch ladies started holding back the thickest, gooiest, most Duncan Hines-perfect piece for me behind the counter, and never gained a pound. I wore size 0’s while gorging myself with full-size bags of honey mustard pretzel nuggets and kiwi strawberry Snapples daily. (Remember when we thought anything fat-free was healthy? Luv ya, Snackwells Devils Food cookies!) I had a good solid run until I got to college and grew 3 inches in height and a couple of cup sizes and a booty and 30 lbs and realized I was just a super late bloomer and not actually impervious to the effects of a diet straight out of Willy Wonka’s cookbook.

Still, I am not a gym rat. I am not even a frequenter of the gym or someone who looks forward to the movement, etc. I go under complete duress and not surprisingly, this results in sporadic attendance. My latest trainer, who is wonderfully compassionate and positive with me like the toddler I am, has in fact been given the instructions that I do not like running, in fact any cardio, and will sweat if I MUST but prefer to just mildly glisten, if moisture is required.

But last week, I went back. As my gym rat husband says (I know - it’s gross but pobody’s nerfect), the hardest part is getting there. And I did get there and I did glisten and complete the workout. But he was wrong, the hardest part was not getting there. The hardest part happened well before I left the house.

The year is 2005. I am living with a roommate in a 250-square foot 4th floor walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen and I am a middle school teacher by day and serial match.com dater by night because, I figure, everyone has to eat dinner. I wear only Hanky Panky OSFA elastic lace thongs, because nothing could be worse than an underwear line in my bootcut Se7en jeans and I am convinced these are far more comfortable than any other type of undergarments so I do all manner of activities, including sleep, with a 1-inch swath of lace up my ass. Life is good.

Over the next 10 years, I make a series of life choices that result in people exiting my body head first in pretty rapid secession. After that first drop, I realize that I no longer want lace up my bum while sleeping with a vampire-person who literally feeds off my body all day and night long. This would only encourage more life choices resulting in vampire people but also, I discovered the adult underpant. And while I wouldn’t recommend stretching and tearing your downstairs business to pieces just for fun, I will say that I found the free adult gauzy diaper thing from the hospital a pretty pivotal moment. I have heard many women talk of the demoralization, the disgust they feel at this point post-labor in these particular disposable undergarments.

She was paid to wear this.

NOT ME.

I felt…moralized? Those ugly undies opened a whole world to me wherein my whole undercarriage, butt cheek included, was covered, supported, snuggled even. And I was into it. (Pro-tip: full coverage undies and unspeakable postpartum night sweats did not prevent further procreation. You actually do need to take your birth control pills for that.)

Ultimately, I am now a full grown woman with very full grown underwear. I have panty lines in all matter of outfits. I have made peace with the idea that, gasp, strangers will know I wear underwear. While this does not make me Gloria Steinem, I do feel it furthers our cause. F*ck your bras AND your thongs! We are saggy-breasted and full-bottomed and we are still the fairer sex! We create life and we cover our asses in cotton blends and you can’t stop us.

Yet, when I dressed for the gym in my Amazon-brand athleisure as I don’t feel I have earned Target yet, almost immediately I thought, “OHMYGOD AM I SUPPOSED TO WEAR A THONG?” Because apparently my feminism stops at the legging panty line. And reader, I can’t believe what happened next but I did put on the only thong I still own, stuck in the back of my drawer, clearly forgotten and overlooked for the last few years. And I lifted weights and boxed and sweat and gagged (because I am not lying about how long it’s been since I did cardio) and I did it all in ass floss. And I did not enjoy it.

So my husband was wrong. The hard part of this workout? It wasn’t getting there. It wasn’t doing the damn thing at all, in fact. It was the actualization of my insecurities that I had thought I overcame long ago. It was the realization that I am still a pawn of the patriarchal, body-con society that tells us attractive women hide their underwear lines, hide their body hair, hide their ambition, their passion, their fullest selves. And yeah, a little bit it was also having a one-inch piece of fabric in my crack.

If you are one of the women who still love thongs, who still find it comfortable and empowering and fashion-friendly, YES. DO IT. I support you in a way your underwear doesn’t. But I am going to go ahead and wear my giant grannies to the gym and to take a walk and to school pick-up and even on date night. (Though I did recently, quite accidentally, buy some split crotch granny panties that I am not sure I know what to do with on a date or otherwise but that’s a story to come.) I am a passionate, confident, intelligent, sexy lady who often does have body hair and me and my giant undies are here to stay.

As our girl Gloria Steinem once said, “Any woman who chooses to behave like a full human being should be warned that the armies of the status quo will treat her as something of a dirty joke. That's their natural and first weapon.” Come at me, bruh. But know my ass is in full armor and I’ve been working out.