Dear New Athletic Bra,
I am unaccustomed to your kind. Wires have always been my “wing girls.” Even one cup from a quality under-wire brassiere, tightly sewn with love by the calloused, industrious digits of some hungry third world child, can contain BOTH pieces of my Plymouth Rock.
It may take lots of heavy breathing and hairy knuckle fumbling from most horny men to simply unlatch a traditional bra, but we women know every trick to saddling the knockers. It becomes like a Dr. Seuss rhyme…
I can do it in the dark! I can do it at a park! I can fasten back and fro! I can wear it high or low!
But I digress…
Athletic Bra from beloved Target, on this bold day I am trusting you with two weighty responsibilities in my first African dance class. I pray the instructor spaces the women far enough apart from each other- This could be war. I salute my fellow worldwide broads, boobage spandex- bandaged in all those Zumba and hot yoga classes.
One friend warned me that I might return home with two black eyes and my boyfriend should get his alibi ready. Another friend reminisced that some gal she knew actually had to be cut from her athletic bra. Never mind the old adage “If you break it, you buy it.” Any woman who ventures into a store dressing room with one of these satanic prophylactics should just slap down her money before the door clicks shut.
Please, then, Bra, keep some order and peace with your charges. I want to draw out the spirit within, not bust out the surface skin. I am full of dread over the inevitable “uniboob”- in fact, mine will surely be the big blob that all B horror movie directors scout passionately for. Athletic Bra, NO ONE envies you in this mission. Even Houdini would glare “WHATEV?!” at this contraption.
In fact, Bra, if Cinderella’s mice ever found their way to my place, they’d be beat day’s end from tugging at your stubborn, sweat-soaked, straps with their big, adorable buck teeth, then limping away to their hole-homes and directly applying for Workman’s Comp.
Thanks in advance, Boobholder!