My husband

It was pouring outside this morning. A miserable cold windy rain that no sane person should have to go out in. A rain that in LA would have surely had the city on “Stormwatch 2006” but in Chicago only gets a cheery, “Boy! If April showers bring May flowers, we’re going to get some serious bloomage this year!” from the morning weather man.

At around 8 am we pulled out the umbrellas and hustled to the bus stop across from our condo to get to work. Down the street we both noticed a female jogger running toward us at a full sprint. She looked determined: her back was straight, head held high, plus she was pumping her arms “power-jogger” style.

As she got closer it struck me -- crazy jogger lady wasn’t wearing any rain protection… and wasn't wearing any… pants. Seriously. I couldn't help but gasp. As she passed by us (revealing her little soggy white-cotton covered derriere) I whispered, “That woman isn’t wearing any pants! She’s running in her panties!”

Mr. Anderson also looked alarmed. He turned to me and said, “Did you see how she was running? She’s too high on her toes. She’s going to get some serious shin splints.”