I clearly have shirt issues

Not an example of a run with a “unisex” shirt. I just like the goofball selfie attempt.

As awesome as a well-organized run event can be, there’s one little thing that bums me out almost every time. I’ll give you one guess.

No I won’t. It’s the damn t-shirt.

A couple weeks ago, Mike and I ran in an event that was new to the area. We steeled ourselves to be patient. By which I mean we did our normal bitching and moaning getting up and ready, and then sank into silence on the ride to the park, lost in our respective head games until we got to the starting line.

Usually, new events take a couple of years to shake out the kinks. Kinks come with the territory, considering the complexity of organizing a 13.1-mile event that sprawls over congested city streets and public pathways where clever adolescents like to rearrange mile markers and directional signs.

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The totally tall tail of a traitorous tee

Not the shirt in question, but totally apropos
Not the traitorous tee in question, but still apropos

One afternoon last week I was in a rush to get to a meeting. I’d been wearing workout clothes all day, trying to summon the motivation to exercise. By the time I realized that sort of thing wasn’t going to spontaneously happen, I had just enough time to shower and dress.

The two meetings I had that afternoon would be casual-ish, one in a stuffy conference room, and the next in a basement I knew to be chilly. I needed layers.

I pawed through a drawer and pulled out a top I must have forgotten from last summer. It would be perfect with the scarf I’d gotten for Christmas, and a cardigan I could pull on for the chilly basement room.

How had I forgotten this shirt? It was a nice fit, the kind of finishing at the neckline to look a little less t-shirty, fitted enough to look tidy without clinging to my muffin top.

Score. Why had this cute thing been shoved all the way to the back of the drawer?

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