Wedgie in the wilderness

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Took a hike with the wife yesterday. She woke me at 5:40 am so we could roam the hills of Southern California, watch the sun rise, experience nature with no one else around.

Then she took a photo of me picking a wedgie.

I told her to DM me the image, which she found strange. But here’s the weird thing: Of all the embarrassing things in the photo, the wedgie ranks a distant fourth or fifth. I’m wearing an inauthentic NYC winter cap I got for free at a cousin’s Bar Mitzvah. My sweatshirt features Mickey Mouse, and was bought at Target for $19. And, despite having worn it yesterday on a hike, I’m wearing it today as well. The shorts, perfectly baggy in 2002, around probably three sizes too big. I’m looking down because I’m irrationally terrified of stepping on a snake—even though there was no reason to think there’d be a snake. My bottle …

Well, the bottle is solid.

Point is—yes, I had a wedgie. Which, in crass speak, means the fabric of my underwear got wedged in between the cracks of my anus.

But the morning was lovely.