The Low Down on the Roll Down

underwear

Any woman of size, (to use the politically correct term), will tell you to never, under any circumstances, wear new underwear when going out in public. Especially if said underwear are the lacy, semi-boy-cut style. I had forgotten about having these so I decided to put them on this morning. Mistake number one. I knew once I had them on I’d be fighting them all day, yet, I was determined to conquer the roll down.

You do know what the roll down is, don’t you? If not, let me explain. When you’re a little chunky and your panties are the least bit silky or lacy, roll down occurs. Panties are supposed to fit just below the belly button-right? And stay there. With the roll down, it can either happen suddenly or, gradually throughout the day.  I had managed to keep the panties in place, until I stopped to get gas. Wearing a skirt. At noon. On my way to a job interview.

I opened the car door, scooted ever so slightly in to the edge of the car seat, and stuck out my left leg. Feeling a slip in clothing, thankfully my skirt, I made the necessary adjustment and stepped out of the car.

Thus began my Olympic competition with the panty roll-down.

“Ten yards to the store, ten yards back,” I told myself. With determination and adrenaline running through my veins and a boost of confidence, I grabbed the door handle. Then it happened, the first major slippage over my one roll of chunkiness.

“Squeeze your cheeks, Beth. Squeeze with every ounce of butt strength you can muster.”

Noon at a gas station on a weekday is not the time to be in a hurry, despite the fact, the longer I stood in line and shuffled my way to the cashier to pay for the gas, the slippage became worse. Let me rephrase: The panties were no longer slipping, but rolling.

To mid-thigh.

I paid the cashier and shuffled Morticia Addams style to my car. By this time, the undergarment had made its way to the tops of my knees. My only reprieve was the curb at the gas pump. Propping up one foot, I maintained a small advantage. Winning the competition was within sight. Placing the gas pump back in place, I walked as if I was holding a basketball between my knees, and opened the car door.

I won. Gold Medal for the chunky chick. A chocolate gold medal.

Though I won the battle, after attempting to uh, rearrange my clothing while sitting in a hot car, had taken its toll. I went to the interview and thought I did well, but never received a call-back.

My guess? I looked like a chunky chick who had won the battle of the roll-down, only to decide to go commando for the interview.

But for those of you out there who have fought the same fight, I did it for us. I was victorious. And quite drafty.

(photo courtesy of Sura Nualpradid/ freedigitalphotos.net)

About Beth Turley

Witty, sarcastic, girlie, geeky. Advocate, writer, tattooed West Virginia Hillbilly, lover of purses. Speak my mind. Stronger than most believe. Sweet tea connoisseur. Frequent cheese taster.

About Beth Turley

Witty, sarcastic, girlie, geeky. Advocate, writer, tattooed West Virginia Hillbilly, lover of purses. Speak my mind. Stronger than most believe. Sweet tea connoisseur. Frequent cheese taster.

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