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(You want to know where her shirt is?  I dunno. It’s not me, FYI.)

Yesterday, I discovered something.  Pants matter.  Pants are important.

Oho, I know this! you say, being a regular pants-wearer yourself. No, you really don’t.

I packed the special pants for the marathon.  Yep.  I pulled on my black stretchy pants and they seemed fine.  They *were* fine.  Jonathon liked them.  I even wore them forwards. I purchased them specifically for the marathon:  compression pants.  They’re supposed to keep your legs from getting tired as quickly since your muscles don’t get jostled around as much.  I was stoked about that.  I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could fly. I would be Supergirl! Or Superwoman, if that floats your boat.

And I did, for about 12-13 miles.  I cruised along, enjoying the scene. But then the wheels fell off, as you well know.

Turns out I didn’t wear the right pants.  I have 3 (three) pairs of black athletic pants.  Some are shorter, one is longer.  The longest pair has no pocket.  Which totally explains why I couldn’t find a back pocket on the durned pants marathon morning.  It wasn’t there.  Never was!

I put on the real pants yesterday before I went running.  These had ribbing on them, going around the leg.  These felt…different.  Wait a minute!  These are the pants I should’ve worn on October 7!  Not those other poser pants. They’re good and all, but not magical.

Gah.

So now you know.  It was all the fault of the pants. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

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