Comfortable skirt season has come and gone and the painful realities of thigh chafing have set in. Yesterday I had the brilliant idea that instead of miserably hot and squeezy shaper shorts, I could make a relatively comfy pair out of a pair of cut-off non-control-top pantyhose to prevent the phenomenon which I have today learned is known as “chub rub” (because evidently the injury of thigh chafing isn’t complete without an insult chaser that sounds like nothing so much as a half-hearted hand job).
I picked up a discount pair at the CVS on the way home last night, along with a coconut chocolate bar because you can’t leave CVS without chocolate. It’s a rule. I felt very pleased with myself this morning as I went at them with scissors (though also kind of guilty because my inner German was pretty sure I was just ruining them on purpose and wasting money), and my joyful smugness at their comfort and effectiveness propelled me right through my morning routine without even the need for caffeine.
Until it came time to walk from the train to my office. By that time, they had stretched out enough to roll up like an old map, managing to actually squeeze the flesh of my thighs down in such a way as to make more of it come into contact, like one of those water filled stress balls that you squeeze and the creature’s eye or brain or whatever gets all bulgy.
As I walked, I made multiple surreptitious attempts to tug them back down and get a barrier back between my wrestling thigh balloons. Though I’m not sure I achieved all that much stealth; I never noticed how many public surveillance cameras there are in the 4 block walk to my office before. I can’t help but imagine some guy sitting at one of those monitoring stations with his coffee and donut and calling over his shoulder, “hey Al! Come get a load of this one!” Also, there are people, like, everywhere. You literally cannot be alone in the state of New Jersey. Literally literally – not just emphatically.
But yeah, this has been my whole day. I would give up entirely and toss them in the trash were it not 90 degrees out, but the moments when they provide an actual barrier have been enough to avoid pain, so I soldier on. I briefly considered sewing some kind of edging onto them to keep them from rolling, but my track record with actually doing things like that is relatively bad. Instead I went to the Oracle and asked what to do about thigh chafing that would require the least amount of follow-through on my part.
It turns out someone else did a really thorough job of trying out a bunch of different options – up to and including silicone personal lubricant, which is exactly the kind of sordid end to which I would have made my way if not for the blessings of the internet. If nothing else, it tells me once again that I am not alone, though I don’t know whether to be happy about that or find someone to apologize to. Either way, the results are worth sharing because pretty much everybody’s thighs rub unless they have a particularly wide pelvis or a dedicated Photoshopper to create an aftermarket thigh gap for some absurd reason.
And so without further ado, the definitive guide to avoiding thigh chafing. You’re welcome. I love it when I get to help without doing any actual work.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go put all of my pants in a box labeled “November”. Or possibly “Goodwill.” Because seriously, dresses are like work-sanctioned nightgowns and I want to wear them all the time.