Rubbed the wrong way

This weekend, CC is in Louisville, KY to support her husband as he participates in a triathlon. Not an Olympic, or "Intermediate" triathlon of 1.5 km swim, 40 km ride, and 10km run; but an unholy trinity of the Ironman triathlon of 3.8 km swim, 180 km ride, and 42.2 km run. I wish him luck.

I was gonna participate this year, but y'know, I'd die.

However, I DO appreciate the efforts towards fitness and healthy living. And, since I'm suffering through an hour-plus long carpool every afternoon, I've run out of excuses why I can't exercise. I can easily park my car, walk for 40 minutes, and return before the line moves an inch.

But my inertia is of Herculean strength. Being of good sense, I decided not to a) rush into anything and b) set reasonable expectations. I am totally one of those people who, in the event of rain and a missed walk, tosses in the towel, claims all is lost, and eats two dozen cookies. My goal is to walk three days a week, which I consider a very modest exercise goal.

Also, being of good sense, I had to do first things first: buy some clothes in which to take my walks. The Spring Hill Walker's Uniform is standard issue to women in the 36608: visor/cap, formfitting v-neck or tank top, black and white running-type shorts, ipod, shoes. Being both anti Spring Hill Women, and not a walker, I had only the ipod and the shoes. I have a cap from when I was at Northwestern. It'll do. I bought a cute walking skort, v-neck shirt, and made the shopping trip Monday's exercise.

Next, I had to actually walk. I parked my car and, indeed, walked for the designated time by myself through the streets surrounding the boys' school. Despite heat rivaling Satan's sauna, things were progressing satisfactorily.

Except. Except for one mortifying detail. My thighs, having not been exercised regularly in the last 35 years or so, rub together. And, in this devil's steam room of a climate, there is substantial sweat. After a brisk walk, my thighs boasted giant strawberries from chaffing. That was nearly it. As I said, it doesn't take much to discourage me. And certainly matching rashes on such delicate skin and so perilously close to my under-manicured nethers, are no small matter. Wednesday was out.

Thursday, on my way to carpool line, I stopped in at the drug store because I'd heard tell of a new product that reduces chaffing. Embarrassingly, I had seen it on TV. I think it's made by Gold Bond and the ad features heavy-set people happily throwing up their arms, skipping, and moving their limbs jauntily, freed from the discomfort of chaffing. Maybe, though I lack significant creases and folds, the anti-chaffing product could work for me.

Unfortunately, drug store did not carry said product. HOWEVER, they did carry a similar product, made by Massengill (?!?) that might suit my needs. The product isn't with athletic products like Icy Hot, or with skin remedies like Caladryl, or even with lotions. It is conveniently located with the feminine hygiene products. So, there I am, scouting past Astroglide, powders, douches, condoms, lube of all varieties, remedies for ewwwww, and lo, there on the bottom shelf. Silky gel to reduce chaffing in the "delicate bikini area." My bikini area cheered with optimism.

I lubed up my thighs and prepared for my walk. In the heat. Alone. But then, I saw SB and LE, and suddenly my lone trek was a laughing, upbeat trio. The walk was less boring, the company enlivening and I was (shh, it'll ruin my rep) having fun! And my lady bits didn't complain at all.

Friday, however, rain prevented me from achieving the hat trick I was aiming for. But I'm not giving up hope. Monday will come again, and I will oil up my thighs and start anew.