Pantyline Confessions

I admit it – I check out other women’s butts. But it’s not what you think! First off, ask any woman and she’ll tell you the same thing. We all do it. We do it because we’re women and—by default—insecure to some degree, so we continuously look at each others’ butts and compare them to our own. I could probably describe the butt of every woman in my office, not because I’m leering or judging, but simply because it’s how I figure out where I stand in the world (from a butt perspective, of course)

The gym is no different. In fact, the gym amplifies this habit to some exponential degree because, let’s face it, we’re all there to make our butts look better. It doesn’t help that we’re all ensconced in spandex, throwing ourselves over machines and bending over in deep stretches. And don’t forget about motivation. The motivation factor is huge. There have been multiple times when I’ve been on the treadmill, on the verge of hitting the stop button because I’m tired and sweaty and am just HATING the fact that I’m running, but I glance up at the butt…oops, I mean woman…in front of me and think either A) man, I want an ass like hers. I’d better keep going, or B) man, I’d hate to have an ass like hers. I’d better keep going.

Either way I keep going. It’s a good thing.

So I was at the gym the other day, running on the treadmill, and checking out the butt of the woman in front of me. She was on the elliptical and, according to the size of her ass, must spend the majority of her waking life on that machine. I was jealous. But I digress…

As I was staring at her ass, I noticed a lack of pantyline. Now, let me back up by saying that pantyline is any woman’s arch nemesis. Nothing kills a well put-together outfit faster than the bumps and lumps that reveal the make and model and (god forbid) color of the day’s choice of under-things. Of course, the most obvious way around the pantyline is usually the thong (with the less-obvious choice of going “commando,” but this route is impractical for a number of reasons that I’ll discuss at a later date). Permanent wedgie aside, thongs are a great way to look smooth and seamless and rockin’ in whatever pants or skirt you decide to wear. Of course they’re uncomfortable, but women have been sacrificing comfort for beauty for thousands of years (except for a brief stint in the ‘60s), and we are unlikely to stop now. So we wear thongs and suffer the string of fabric lodged between our cheeks because we know we look awesome and there is absolutely no line to spoil the vision that is our ass.

Of course, I personally believe there are exceptions to this pact we have made to sacrifice comfort for a nice looking ba-donk-a-donk. In my mind, the panty should prevail in any situation where the goal is ease-of-mobility over a seamless silhouette. I’m talking about the gym. Oh, I’ll do what it takes to look nice at the office. I’ll wear underwire and thongs and three-inch heels with pointy toes, but at the gym, all bets are off. I’m not there to impress anyone. I’m not there to pick up guys. I’m not there to do anything but sweat and burn calories and maybe rock out to Snoop Dogg on my MP3 player.

So why then, ladies and gentleman, am I expected to not have a pantyline?

As I stared at the woman in front of me, with her seam-free buttocks bouncing up and down as she “ellipsed” in place, I felt sorry for her. Obviously she had chosen to wear a thong to the gym, and was suffering terribly in silence. Cardiovascular assaults are uncomfortable enough without adding anal insult to the list. What was she thinking? After taking a moment of silence for her undoubtedly tortured no-no area, my eyes drifted to the right, where another woman was struggling on a similar machine. Now this woman had obviously…how do I put this kindly?...let herself go. She was not-just-a-little overweight and clearly out of shape to a pretty pathetic degree. I gave her a mental high-five for summoning up the will-power to take control of her situation by going to the gym, and was about to move my eyes to the next interesting thing when I couldn’t help but notice…her butt.
Her un-pantylined posterior.
A lack of visible undergarments on her backside.
Another thong victim. Wow, so sad.

But then, as I continued to peruse the butts of women around me, I had a sinking realization. Young and old, thin and fat, they all had one thing in common: no pantyline. A gym full of women, and not a pantyline in sight. My eyes searched the crowd in a final, desperate attempt to identify any seam that indicated an undergarmant beneath. Nothing. Not a one. And then came my second, equally disturbing realization: I was the only woman at the gym who was wearing panties.

Ladies and gentleman, I implore you. Are we no better than animals? Are our mating rituals so ingrained that we go to great lengths to appear sexually attractive, even when it directly competes with our ability to function in our surroundings? Are muscular strength and cardiovascular endurance not more indicative of reproductive health than a derriere that is unmarred by underlying garment seams?!? I ask you, what kind of society do we live in when a woman is expected to parade around a gym, smiling like nothing is wrong, taking great pains to work off that cupcake she had after lunch, all the while enduring a wedging assault to her backside?!?!?!?!?!?!? IS THIS NOT INSANITY IN ITS PUREST FORM!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

But I guess I’m the only one who has a problem with this. I’m the only one at my gym who is disturbed by the concept of making a grueling work-out more uncomfortable than it has to be. So apparently I have no choice other than to join the ranks of the thong-wearing gym masochists at Active Fitness . That, or I condemn myself to be known as “that freak with the pantyline who always looks so miserable on the treadmill.” I suppose it wouldn't be such a bad thing. Sure, crowds would part for me, a thousand eyes upon my backside, mouths agape in horror, childering whispering and pointing at my pantyline, but at least I wouldn't have to wait for a treadmill...I'd just walk up to one and the person using it would turn it off and back away slowly, lest they disturb "that freak with the pantyline."

Freaks of the world, eat your heart out. Your horns and lobster-hands and gigantic tumors and hairy growths are no match for my pantyline.