OK, I have finally decided to come clean. I had to tell this story to hopefully spare someone else from the pain and embarrassment I suffered. All at the hands of an evil device. That device? The sports bra.
Now you ladies know all about these contraptions. They are sized about 4 sizes too small, to hold down and prevent any movement whatsoever of “the girls”. They would comfortably fit a Barbie doll. Well, you men, just picture wrapping rubber bands around your “buddy” and go jogging. That is about the equivalent to the feeling of wearing a sports bra.
Last winter I was a very devoted gym-goer. I was going about 3 times a week, doing cardio, free-weights, nautilus machines, yoga, you name it, I was doing it. And I enjoyed it, which is strange. But then the holidays came, along with eating, gift buying, stressing, etc. So the gym became a distant memory.
So as January wound to a close, I decided to hit the gym again. I waited until the end of the month when all of the “resolution-makers” got over their guilt and stopped going. So I got dressed, sports bra and all and went to the gym.
Now those of you who know me know I am not the type to do anything the easy way. I figured, “I was coming here about 2 months ago and doing my workout. I’m going to do the same workout now.” Of course, I didn’t think about how out of shape I was or all of the Christmas cookies still taking up residence in my body.
So I started – I decided to do arms and upper body. I did push, pull, curls, bends, flies, rows, presses. Then I decided to tackle the abs: abduction, adduction, curls, balance ball, medicine ball. I was on fire! Let’s throw in some back! Let’s do some legs! Let’s wrap it all up with some cardio on the bike! That was great – let’s do some work on the treadmill!
An hour and a half later I dragged myself from the gym and went home. I felt good! I couldn’t wait to do it again!
The next day, I woke up and I reached over to grab my glasses off the nightstand like I do everyday. The only problem was I couldn’t push the sheets off me. My arm muscles were screaming from the intense weight of the sheets. When did they get so heavy? I wiggled my toes to get the sheets to move down my body. I slowly eased out of bed (meaning I had to inch my way to the end and roll off the bed because I couldn’t sit up).
OK, I could slowly walk to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet was another story. I just kind of flopped down and then fell to my knees when I was done because I couldn’t stand. I crawled my way over to the tub to get up.
How could I be so sore? I just did my normal workout. OK, I was a little out of shape, but this bad?
But I was OK. I was determined to go to the gym again. I can do this! So I took off my nightshirt (painfully) and got out . . . the sports bra. Now as I mentioned, sports bras are meant as garments to restrict movement. I didn’t think about it through my haze of pain, and I raised my arms and let the bra drop down my arms. That is where the problem started.
The bra stopped at about my elbows. So both of my arms are straight up and are now screaming in pain and the searing heat is tearing up my back. My arms are pinned at my ears. So I bend one arm and try to ease the bra down. No good. It is stuck. So I am now forced to move my back and shoulders to try to work this tool of Satan down my arms. I get it down a little ways, and it stops again, about the middle of my biceps. My arms are shaking like crazy. So now I am pinned and the steel-like material is cutting into my very sore bicep muscles. So I bend my right arm and the tears immediately come into my eyes. My biceps are on fire. My back feels like someone is sticking me with a red-hot poker. I slowly work the bra down and I bite the bullet, grab the bastard and yank it over my head. Now my right arm is pinned at my side, bent at the elbow, my left arm is still up and the bra is half way around my neck. I look in the mirror at my misery and I see to my horror, the Nike logo, right in the middle of the bra in the middle of my chest. Why am I so horrified?? The logo goes in the BACK. I have the damn thing on backwards. The racer back is mushing my boobs down and they are spilling out the sides. Now I am stuck and i can’t move.
Now I feel like crying because I am in pain, stuck in a bra and my boobs look awful.
What now? My husband isn’t home, and even if he was, there is no way I would ask for help. I would never live this down. My son is downstairs watching TV, but he is four. I don’t want to scare the poor kid. He would have nightmares about Mommy and her scary boobies.
I laid down on the bed and thought maybe I could roll the bra up my back, so I start rolling off the bed. Even worse. Now the blasted thing has rolled up and is halfway up my chest, cutting into my mammaries even more.
I look at the footboard on my bed, wondering if I could hook it on there and yank it off. I had images of slipping and cracking my jaw on it, so I quickly nixed that idea.
I looked at the door and saw the door handle. Maybe that would work. I sunk down to my knees, my leg muscles quivering through the pain. I kept rubbing my back against the handle trying to hook it, but no luck. Now I just had a bunch of welts on my back.
I sat on the floor to catch my breath. I tried laying on the floor, hoping I could roll it the rest of the way up to my neck and then maybe I could spin it around. I rolled around and got rub burns on my back and my funbags.
I couldn’t even get the scissors to cut the f&#@!ing thing off. I stood up and looked in the mirror again. My boobs were red and mushed, my arm was stuck and I was pissed. Enough was enough. I pushed with all of the strength I had left, grabbed that son of a bitch, yanked it off, got it caught on my nose, pulled it the rest of the way and I was FREE!
I flung the evil thing across the room where it landed behind a chair. For all I know it is still there, covered in dust bunnies and rotting. Good.
That morning I put my jammies back on, poured myself some coffee and ate a cookie. I deserved it.
Check back over the next few days to read the story of my mother having a claustrophobic attack putting on an undergarment. It must be a family thing.