They hit me again yesterday: ALL THE REASONS I HATE SPANDEX.
Usually, my hatred for Spandex (Lycra, elastane) is reserved for those rare moments when I darken the doorway of a gym. There does not exist a single item of workout clothing that does not contain Spandex, and the mere idea of working out gives me a fit of the vapours. (I’m not sure what the vapours are, actually. I don’t think it’s gas, because back in the olden days they used to administer smelling salts to treat it. My best guess is that ladies got the vapours because they were wearing their corsets too tight, and that is precisely how I feel in workout clothing. It’s kind of a combination of claustrophobia and panic.)
Another reason I remember to hate Spandex is when I’m held up in traffic on account of a bicyclist. No matter how lovely the derriere may be in regular clothes, no one’s looks particularly good shrink wrapped in elastane. Hello, OVERSHARE! (And sweat marks… ewwww) And the better the cyclist, the more beef-jerky the haunches. *shudder!*
Yesterday, however, I began to reflect on my elasto-hatred for altogether different reasons.
You see, I was long overdue to clean my chicken coops. Yes, there are two, and I’m ashamed to admit they were both properly rank.
Admittedly, I was not dressed to the nines or anything. Coop cleaning for 20 birds after a long and extremely wet winter is quite possibly, apart from dis-impacting the human bowel, the most disgusting job on planet earth. I was, in fact, wearing some old, stretchy, paint-streaked work jeans and a much washed cotton Tee blended with elastane (Spandex) for a little “give” in the bust and a little”take” at the waistline. If the hanger was to be believed 3 years ago when I purchased said Tee, the shirt was meant to employ the precise ratio of modesty to flattery of one’s figure.
Thirty washes later, the elastane content of my T-shirt has decided to make a return to its original form of compressed polymer fibres. In other words, from the moment I put it on, it makes a continuous slow crawl from my hip up to my bra line at the commencement of any movement whatsoever. Strenuous movement. Like breathing.
Since my average time spent in casual clothing consists primarily of cooking, cleaning or sitting at my computer, the time taken for this Tee shirt to shrink up to my ribs is about 15 minutes or so. It’s annoying, but not unbearable.
Meanwhile, the Spandex content in my much worn and washed jeans also decided to make a retreat in the direction of my knees, thanks in large part to the pull of my Wellies from the bottom. Well, at least that’s what I tell myself. It’s easier than saying my recently expanded waistline no longer provides the appropriate notch to hold them up…
In any case, between pulling my top down and my bottoms up, this was one flustered Mother Hen!
Oh, did I mention I was was wearing rubber gloves at the time? Because I was shovelling chicken poop? And that it had been wet? Really, really wet…
I may never be clean again.
© motherhendiaries 2017, all rights reserved.
- feature photo: Shutterstock – no, people, this is not me! As if…
- fainting lady: listverse.com
- cycle butt: rUnladylike.com
- chicken meme: memegenerator.com