Yes, that is Kate Gosselin out running away from her eight kids; most likely repeating her “I’m not a quitter” mantra over and over again until she summons the strength to go back to them. Anyway, this isn’t a post about Kate’s running or her flat stomach. Much as I love thinking about it. And this post isn’t about Saint Paddy’s day. This post is about bras.
I had totally forgotten that today was St. Pat’s and then yesterday, while walking out of my yoga studio with no bra on, the above-referenced phrase popped into head. It was an accident–the no bra thing. I just forget to bring a change of “intimates” with me to the studio and therefore, had to go grocery shopping sans support. I had a moment of being all weird about it and feeling guilty and worrying that some mom in Milam’s would end up slapping her hands over the eyes of her young son before accusing me of public indecency. But that faded pretty quickly.
To all you busty ladies out there debating whether or not this is possible for you, I say go for it. If only for a quick trip to the grocery store. Maybe my advancing age has me caring less and less about what other people think or maybe I was in a state of coffee withdrawal-induced melancholia. Regardless, here’s what I noticed:
There is a lot of breast in this town, people. Real and fake, young and old, and very often, on prominent display. Miami is boob-happy and my bra-free set was hardly the most outrageous or obscene kicking around Milam’s last night.
It just dawned on me that this post might get the wrong kind of attention.
Whatever. No publicity is bad publicity.
I’ve oft been jealous of the small-busted fitness-focused ladies I see out running in nothing but old school sports bras–you know the kind Kate is wearing in that pic, made of stretch cotton with absolutely with no real support? But in this town, I’m more often confronted by the sight of massive, glittering, silicone orbs spilling out over bikini tops and heading in my direction on South Bayshore at 6 in the AM. I give those girls their kudos. Running with melons is difficult. Especially when they’re strapped to your chest.
I fall somewhere between champagne glass and cantaloupe. For most exercise, I swear by the Lululemon Tata Tamer. I’ve had some issues with bathing suits but recently bought myself a Waterpro Unitard and I love it. When I run, I also wear a Trek compression tank that’s a size too small. It’s hard to get on and off but boy, when it’s on, I feel boobless. And that’s a good way to feel when you’re running for 90 minutes.
Mind you, not when you’re on a date. Please don’t misinterpret this post as some kind of self-loathing account of why it sucks to be well endowed. It doesn’t. Except when you’re bouncing down the street or up and down on a trampoline. Although I’m sure there are plenty of men out there who would disagree with my assessment that big breasted girls on trampolines sucks at all.
I know there are a lot of gals out there right now who will end up braless at some point in the next several hours. To all who drink Guinness and flash strangers on the street, I salute you! But drink a lot of water and take two Advil before bed tonight. If the hangover doesn’t getcha’, the whiplash surely will.