You Know Your Bra is Too Tight When….
I dislike shopping for clothes. I especially dislike shopping for underwear. My dislike is complicated by the fact that the few places I know I can get bras that I like, usually only carry one or at most two of each size. Since I wear primarily the sort of “one measurement size fits all sorts of shapes in that measurement” sports bras, this means that I can buy off the rack without having to brave the assault of endless fitting mirror repetitions of my naked endowments as I contort and struggle into and out of various models and sizes.
Since I am on the large size, most stores carry only one or at most two bras in each of the larger sizes. The result is that when I go bra shopping I am usually forced add at least one bra if not more that is of new style or by a different manufacturer. My rationale for this is that perhaps the bra will fit ok and I will have found yet another type that I can buy, or if it doesn’t fit I can return it for a refund. Right…..I never do seem to get around to returning the no fits, but instead tend relegate them to the bottom of the pile, figuring I can use them as workout bras.
I am in the process of trying to get into shape. This involves working out at least 4 days a week at the gym with lots of resulting sweat. Like most women, I sweat a lot on my upper chest, neck, face, arms and between my breasts. This means that I tend to soak through my bra in the first 15 minutes of every workout. Two hours later, when I come home, the soggy bra clings fiercely to my skin, resisting being removed so that I can shower or clean up and flinging droplets of sweat randomly at mirror and floor as I gyrate to remove it..
The other day I mistakenly grabbed one of the previously purchased bras which really truly should have gone back to the store as too tight. Blissfully unaware, I put it on and went of for a session with my ex Marine Corps trainer and the obligatory 45 minutes follow up cardio workout on the elliptical trainer. It didn’t help that both the ac and all the fans were broken and the gym, being open 24 hours a day was already beginning to strongly resemble a Turkish bath.
If you have ever worn a sports bra, you know that the easiest way to remove one is to reach up and back with your arms, grab the straps and pull up on these until you can reach the bottom band and pull it up over your shoulder blades and head.
It was only when I came home and attempted to remove both my wet enough to wring out t shirt and soggy bra that I realized my mistake in bra selection. In spite of vigorous stretching and sunfishing, I could not get the thing to move up my back far enough to grasp the body or bottom band from the top. I tried backing up and rubbing against the door frame it inch it up. The result was that the bra was pressed even more tightly against my skin, and my dripping sweat nicely lubricated the door frame that as I leaned back for an even firmer rub, I slid down the door frame and ended up sitting on the floor at the base of the door.
Next I tried pulling up with one hand and pushing the band up from behind with the other hand. Momentary panic set it when I realized my back hand was trapped under the band and that the muscle in the shoulder of the upper arm was in the process of Charlie horsing to beat the band. I sort of jumped up in the air like you do when you’re pulling on really tight jeans, gave a feeble bleat and managed to release my upper arm, reach around the front of my body and grab and pull at the sleeve of the trapped arm enough to release it.
The cats, startled from my sudden jump and karate like moves left the room at the trot. I remained, still trapped in a dripping bra that was growing colder and clammier by the minute.
I took a moment to gather myself and catch my breath. Visions of blocks and tackles, pulleys and s & m riggings crossed my mind, as did just trying to blot the thing dry with a towel and skip the shower and put up with my by this time rather whiff aroma and wait for himself to come home. The thought of that moment of ritual humiliation and him rolling on the floor in hysteria was too much to contemplate. I knew then that it was up to me and me alone to better figure out how to get the bra off all by myself.
I dried my back and the door frame and tried that method again. Still no go, so I decided that maybe if I slip one arm inside the bra down along my ribs, I could lever it off one shoulder and then pull it off over my head and the other arm. Nothing loathe, I gave it a try, only to realize, once the arm was firmly trapped, that if it had been to tight to pry away from the back with my hand, it wasn’t going to be any easier to pry off my ribs with my whole arm. Duhh! So there I stood, my left arm firmly trapped inside my bra, my right arm free and easy. I had visions himself coming home and finding me, half clothed, passed out from hyperventilation, in shock from the cold air from the ac blowing on my wet and exposed flesh, one arm firmly trapped inside my bra and the other reaching in in vain for the telephone or the front door.
Finally in desperation I reached over with my right hand, grabbed my left wrist which extended below the bottom of the band and pulled down and out with all my might while letting out a most satisfying bellow. Whether it was sweat weakened seams giving way to the pressure of my pulling, or the effect of a soul rending screeching yell, I’ll never know. Either way, the offending bra flew off over my head and hit the window with a soggy sounding splat, stuck to the glass momentarily and then slid down the entire length of the window leaving behind a slime trail of sweat on the glass.
Said bra has now been thrown away, I am showered and feeling much better thank you, except that my arm and shoulder feel a bit pulled about and wrenched which leaves me with the problem of explaining to J. my trainer, why I don’t want to work on arms or shoulders for a few days.
No comments:
Post a Comment