Breeches faux pas

Today was a regular day. I got up, put on my breeches, dropped off my son at daycare, and headed to the barn. I fed Johnny, cleaned his stall, and got caught up on my barn gossip, never once suspecting anything out of place. I rode with my three new barn friends, and we played musical horses. No one mentioned anything. I am totally comfortable wearing breeches in public. Though, my husband tells me there is a fine line between ‘looking like you just came from the barn and plain skank.’ I’m pretty sure I’ve pulled off the plain skank a time or two, but today I felt like I had that “fresh from the barn” look going on with a pair of Kerrits riding tights and an UnderArmor top, complete with the requisite hay thrown in for effect. I met the hubs for lunch today in the shoppette on post, and as I stood in line next to all the soldiers in uniform, I caught the occasional double-take (what the heck is she wearing?), but I knew I probably looked like a runner whose pants had weird knee patches. It was only later, in the car, as I absentmindedly scratched at the backside of my thigh that I realized something was amiss. What on earth was that strange soft, lumpy spot? Wait, it’s rather big…what on earth?? And then I realized what I’d done, and for the first time in awhile, I was embarrassed. I had worn these same breeches yesterday (oh, come on, I’m not the only one), and in my rush to change, I hadn’t noticed that my panties were still inside. I had just spent an entire morning walking around with a pair of panties bulging down the backside of my thigh. Go Eventing.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s