Last night I picked up my official license plates for my car (and by “picked up” I mean watched as John the Salesguy installed them).
The letters on my plates are GZT. The naming the car contest is now officially begun. Go.
After that I went shopping.
I went shopping because I had a gift card. And because I needed a sports bra. And because I had a few minutes.
So I shopped.
Now, I’m reasonably sure that you, being a male-type-person, have never gone sports bra shopping. If you have, I really don’t need to know about it. Working on the assumption that you have not personally tried on sports bras, I am here to enlighten you.
First, I found a bunch of pieces of fabric labeled as sports bras. Clearly, the only sport they are intended to be used for is chess. There was nothing either “sports” or “bra” about them. I moved on.
And found – and I have the photo evidence to prove it – push-up sports bras. Here’s the thing. I expect a lot from a sports bra. I want it to squeeze in, I want it to contain, I want it to hold down. In no way, shape, or form do I want it to push up. Seriously, who wants to work out with their boobs competing for air space? I can’t breathe, my boobs are blocking my nose! Um, no and no. On the other hand, the idea of my bra doing push-ups for me is incredibly appealing. And hilarious. If I can find a bra that will do squats for me, I will buy it in every shade available. I moved on.
And found a rack of what might properly be considered sports bras. I grabbed a few and into the fitting room we went, the bras and I.
The thing about putting on a sports bra is that getting the darn thing on is where you get all the exercise. Forget working out afterward, you’re already exhausted. It take the strength of six people, the dexterity of a professional yoga teacher, and the willpower of a stubborn three year old to get it on. And if you’re putting on one with the zipper in the front, you need at an additional set of hands to get the zipper zipped. And a degree in mechanical engineering. It also helps if you have the vocabulary of a drunk sailor. Seriously, you’d think it would reasonably easy. You’d be wrong.
Not only is it nearly a feat beyond human capacity to try on sports bras, this store had cleverly positioned the tags so that it was impossible to adjust the straps. So I had to guess at whether loosening or tightening them would make the bra fit better. Guessing is not my preferred method of shopping for sports bras.
The first one I tried on was a tad too tight. It was like trying to put the toothpaste back in the tube. With the straps completely wrong. Did I mention the lighting in the dressing room was designed by someone who hates people?
So I tried one size bigger. Which was made for a person twice as big as a hefty elephant. Seriously, we could have put an entire family in this thing and had room left over for a concert piano.
By this time, I was warmed up, so I tried on a third. Which was somehow simultaneously too big and too small. But the design was really cute so after I’d wrestled it on I actually contemplated buying it.
In the end, I did the only reasonable thing. I left the lingerie area empty handed, went to the clearance section and bought an adorable little top which I can’t wear until the temperature warms up about 50 degrees by which time it will be completely out of fashion and obsolete.
Making 2017 a good year one day at a time