Didn’t think it was me, huh? When you reached into your underwear drawer bleary-eyed and barely awake at 5 a.m., you could have sworn I was your old reliable Champion racerback. Typical! You threw me in your gym bag like some kind of two-bit poly-blend, next to your rank Nikes and salsa-soiled tank top (which, BTW, do we need to talk about wearing athleisure at happy hour again?).
Yep. It wasn’t until you got to the gym that you realized what had happened. Rather than pulling out your moisture-wicking, ventilated, max-support, compression bra, you found me, your wildly expensive, only worn once, spaghetti-strap sports bra.
That’s right, bitch. I’m back.
After years of neglect, my distressingly sheer lycra is ready to tackle that treadmill, so let’s hit it, girl.
Yep, turn that notch up to jog pace, let’s see what you can do.
You’re muttering something under your breath, I can’t quite catch it… I’m sorry, now you’re muttering and clutching your chest. Can you speak up? You don’t… what? You don’t feel comfortable running with me on? Oh. Is that so?
Your back hurts?
You think your back fat looks like it’s being shredded by a spandex cheese grater?
You think your boobs look like a pair of melting snow cones?
You think your underarm flab looks like a chubby redhead trying to escape a game of capture the flag?
You think the latticework on an apple pie is more structurally sound?
You think wearing a cobweb would offer better support?
You think I make you look like a human jump castle?
You think I’m a nip slip waiting to happen?
You think I’m the Frankenstein of athletic wear, an unorthodox scientific experiment, a mesh monster created to haunt size-D women’s dreams?
You’re damn right, I am.
Now run, sucker.