Please put it away.

I don't pretend to be a fashionista. In fact, I go so far as wanting to punch anybody pretentious enough to add "ista" at the end of perfectly normal words. As long as my ass or my ankles aren't hanging out of my pants when neither is supposed to be, then I am a reasonably happy woman. Same for the boobs and the belly. I'm not Amish, but to me a good outfit covers and flatters. Or on a bad day -- covers. Some days that's all we can hope for.

Bringing me to my point. I don't ask for much. I don't even hope for much. I'm a natural-born pessimist so when something goes wrong I'm usually the loudest peanut in the gallery, swigging a drink and saying, "Well...I saw that one coming." But, even I never saw Shelley* coming.

I have to see Shelley every day. I don't work with her, but she's a fixture in my daily routine. Shelley enjoys her track suits, and God bless her for it. I love the elasticized waistband too. I'm wearing PJ pants right now and this type of freedom is why wars are fought. These are not the track suits Shelley wears, however.

Shelley's suits are...restrictive. Her pants, while covering, are tight enough to reveal...oh, how do I put this...her va-jay-jay. I can see that Shelley doesn't wax through her track-pants, and through her underwear. If I can see her grooming habits don't think I can't see what kind of underwear she's got on. These are cotton track pants. Do you know how tight those pants have to be to put me in such an awkward situation? Do you??

I'm faced with Shelley, her va-jay-jay and her pants at least three times a week. That's how much she loves them, and that's how quickly a perfectly good fashion concept can go off the rails for women.

Shelley is a sweetheart, and I love talking to her. I just have to be very careful to keep my eyes from drifting. Like, ever.

*Naturally I changed the name to keep from anybody getting sued, and by anybody I mostly mean me.