Failure of the Day: Boob
The Summer of Slurpees is a smashing, ongoing, just-extended success but the Summer of Pilates—not so much. Once we found our new place in San Jose, complete with gleaming, 24-hour, state-of-the-art, and completely free fitness center, it became clear that since I would be returning to full-time telecommuting, I would also be returning to my mid-day gym workouts.
Ah, the treadmill. Nothing says Fuck You to six years of paralysis like running. I have a plan for my 40th birthday—a scant 15 months away—that involves completing my novel and running a 5K, both of which are well within my sights and ability I think. This helps.
To that end, we trudged to Berkeley this afternoon to go to a store called Title 9 because I heard that they had something that I not only never imagined I’d ever be in the market for, but that I was all but certain did not exist: a really good jogging bra. In a 38DD. (Yeah, I know. They grew back. They get much bigger and I’ll chop ’em off again.)
You can’t tell by looking at it whether or not a bra will provide the kind of fit and support we full-figured gals demand. In fact, there is only one way to tell. You put the thing on, you stand in front of the mirror in your little dressing room, and you jump up and down. I felt like a jackass of course—nobody wants to watch themselves jump up and down in their underwear, not even in Berkeley—but then I heard the thump thump thumps coming from the dressing rooms on either side of me. I crouched down and saw other women’s feet bouncing up and down in the rooms to my left and to my right. It dawned on me: Everybody watches themselves jump! Who knew? We were all there in our small rooms, topless and watching our uniboobs (jogging bras are snug and not flattering), hopping from foot to foot, and trying to detect which bra allows the least amount of movement. A secret army of women with very still breasts!
I bought a cute little wireless number with a big label on it that reads INTENSE ACTIVITY MOTION CONTROL. On the Title 9 rating system, it got 4 barbells out of a possible 5 for strength of support. What a great store.
Ah, the treadmill. Nothing says Fuck You to six years of paralysis like running. I have a plan for my 40th birthday—a scant 15 months away—that involves completing my novel and running a 5K, both of which are well within my sights and ability I think. This helps.
To that end, we trudged to Berkeley this afternoon to go to a store called Title 9 because I heard that they had something that I not only never imagined I’d ever be in the market for, but that I was all but certain did not exist: a really good jogging bra. In a 38DD. (Yeah, I know. They grew back. They get much bigger and I’ll chop ’em off again.)
You can’t tell by looking at it whether or not a bra will provide the kind of fit and support we full-figured gals demand. In fact, there is only one way to tell. You put the thing on, you stand in front of the mirror in your little dressing room, and you jump up and down. I felt like a jackass of course—nobody wants to watch themselves jump up and down in their underwear, not even in Berkeley—but then I heard the thump thump thumps coming from the dressing rooms on either side of me. I crouched down and saw other women’s feet bouncing up and down in the rooms to my left and to my right. It dawned on me: Everybody watches themselves jump! Who knew? We were all there in our small rooms, topless and watching our uniboobs (jogging bras are snug and not flattering), hopping from foot to foot, and trying to detect which bra allows the least amount of movement. A secret army of women with very still breasts!
I bought a cute little wireless number with a big label on it that reads INTENSE ACTIVITY MOTION CONTROL. On the Title 9 rating system, it got 4 barbells out of a possible 5 for strength of support. What a great store.
posted by Nancy @ 10:17 PM
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