“Put Neosporin on it,” I advised my husband, Francis, who had jogged 17 miles that day, and chafed his inner thighs raw. We needed a quick solution, because he only had half an hour to pick up the babysitter so we could make our dinner reservation.

Francis wasn’t a runner, but he’d signed up to run the London Marathon the following week. We were stationed at JAC Molesworth, England, about 90 miles north of London. He and his workmate had been practicing a few days a week, but hadn’t jogged more than 10 miles until that day.

An experienced marathoner at work had told them, “as long as you can run 17 miles,” you can do the marathon. So, with only a week until the race, they planned their longest run ever, not knowing that novice marathoners who don’t lube up their chests and thighs with Vaseline will finish their runs with blood streaking down their T-shirts and shorts.

“But won’t the Neosporin soak through my khakis?” Francis asked in desperation while we dressed for dinner.

“Good point,” I said, and put my thinking cap back on. “Wait! I have an idea!” I opened my dresser drawer and pulled out two circular nursing breast pads made to stick inside a bra. “Stick these on the insides of your khakis, so the Neosporin won’t soak through.” Genius!

I wasn’t about to miss our first outing since giving birth to our second child, Anna, who was barely two months old, over a little bit of chafing. Since Anna was still a newborn and nursing, she’d be coming along to our dinner while Hayden stayed home with the babysitter. I couldn’t wait to finally get out of the house.

I helped Francis remove the small adhesive strips on the back side of the nursing pads, and we carefully stuck them to the inside of his khakis. Francis grinned, impressed with his wife’s ingenuity, as he left for the babysitter’s house.

Our babysitters, Jacquie and Anitra, were sisters from a very proper American Air Force family that lived a couple of villages over from us. When Francis arrived back home, Jacquie came into our house while Francis waited for me outside. I kissed Hayden goodbye, and carried Anna out to the minivan.

“You’re not gonna believe what happened!” Francis blurted as soon as I buckled Anna into her carseat. I listened, stunned, as Francis relayed the details of an embarrassing tale.

Inside the Air Force family’s foyer, Francis was greeted by the babysitters’ father. While they waited for Jacquie to come downstairs, they chatted about work stuff, when suddenly, the father’s eyes darted to the floor, aghast.

Wanting to know what had shocked the stern father, Francis looked down, too, only to see that a blood-stained nursing pad had fallen out of his pant leg. The father’s eyes shot back from the pad to Francis’ face, demanding an explanation.

While the father stared intently, Francis feebly stuttered and giggled through the story of the 17-mile run, the chafing, the Neosporin, the khakis, and his wife’s bright idea, which now seemed like a very, very bad idea. Humiliated, Francis scooped up the bloodied circle and stuffed it in his pocket before Jacquie descended the staircase.

Needless to say, the incident dominated our dinner conversation. Did Jacquie’s dad believe Francis’ chafing story? If not, how did he account for the nursing pad that fell out of Francis’ pants? Why would he let his daughter leave with this man? How did he recount this story to his wife? Despite the extreme embarrassment Francis felt, we laughed until we cried.

The next weekend, Francis finished the London Marathon un-chafed, thanks to a thick coating of Vaseline. And recently, decades after that fateful night, Jacquie, Anitra and their families came to our house for a visit. We’d kept in touch through Christmas cards and social media, so when they were in our area, we planned to catch up.

As tends to happen with military friendships, we felt a closeness that belied the fact that we hadn’t actually seen each other in 26 years. Of course, we retold the story of the khakis and the nursing pad, and again laughed until we cried.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com