Robyn Anderson

It finally happened. On Monday I wore my trousers inside out. I know there are people out there saying, “What’s the big deal? I do that at least once a week.”  Thanks for the reassurance  but I don’t.  I’m not a running around, chuck-on-any-old-thing-any-old-way sort of person. If I find I’ve got my underwear on inside out, I will take it off in the toilet and turn it back the right way round because who knows when someone’s going to be ripping those pants right off me. (People do still get run over by buses don’t they?).

Anyway, back to the trousers. They were black. I know that isn’t an excuse but if you don’t have your glasses on it is definitely more difficult to see if the seams are the right way round when something’s black. I expect it’s down in the hazard assessments of every one of our national sports teams. “Check the garment is not on inside out.”

Back to the trousers. Not only were these particular trousers black, but they were also my best pair of my going-to-the-gym  and doing a-spot-of-yoga stretchy ones.  Whenever I have to haul that stuff over the peaks and valleys I love so much, it ignites a primal lycra loathing in me. Don’t get me wrong. If it’s double strength that stuff can do wonders, but if it was double strength I’d still be sitting on the bathroom floor trying to pull them over my first foot.

I put on the trousers because I am going to the gym. In the car – because as my husband pointed out so very clearly, “Why do you want to bike when you’re already paying to exercise?” A fair point that made me feel all glowy and not the least bit concerned about driving 2 km down the road to exercise – though I didn’t park right outside the door. I parked on the street because I’ve already had this year’s insurance claim and I don’t ever want to have to go back into an exercise facility again shouting, “Does anyone own a white Toyota?”

I pick up my pink water bottle from where it’s dripped on the front passenger seat and breeze across the road, past the chemist with the door that always opens even if you walk as far over to the edge of the path as you can and get to our new Curves gym where click myself in and commence sweating. Half way through the circuit I have my knee up near my eyeball and Oh my God. It was so shocking I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “I’ve got my trousers on inside out!” I said. Women stopped dead in their tracks their hands fluttering down the leg seam of their own clothing in an involuntary movement.

“I thought so,” said one of the trainers. “Yeah,” said the other one, ” it’s the pocket that gives it away.”

So there I was, metaphorically naked in the middle of a gym session facing the great dilemma. I would be lying if I said I didn’t consider racing off to the change rooms, doing a lower body strip and hauling it all back on the right way round,   but I was knackered by then and I thought, nah. I can get away with this if I put my jacket on before I go back to the car.

And I did. And nothing happened. No buses, no-one shouting across the street. Just me and my flappy back pocket deciding to go straight back home in case we had an earthquake and I was trapped in the rubble with my trousers on inside out.