by Lorie Fuller
We joined the YMCA at the beginning of the summer, partly to give the kiddos access to the pool and some activities, partly to give me a chance to get physical. I termed it, "The Naked Y," because there's a bright-shiny-new-pool with bright-shiny-new-bikini-mommies. Oh, and the yoga girls. But, that's another story.
I blew the dust off my active-wear drawer and shook out a few old athletic bras and some spandex butt-boosters. You can tell your old workout clothes are in bad shape when the elastic crackles like breakfast cereal in milk. You can't expect disintegrating elastic to hold in all the jiggly bits and keep the boobs from getting, errr, too far ahead of you. (Those of you over a 36D will understand what I mean.)
So, I went shopping at the local discount-designer place and began flipping through the fitness clothing. Everything was sort-of so-so. Typical sports bras and tops, sort of shapeless and clearly made for someone less amply endowed than I. But then, I found this:
Having once been quite stylish and believing I have good taste, not to mention knowing I had years of shopping experience under my belt, I immediately recognized that this particular top was unique. Yes - it was different, stylish, and I thought how clever it was that the bra part was on the outside. Madonna. I would be Mama Madonna around those skinny beach bitches. I wondered, "Gee, do you suppose you get better support with a style that has the bra on the outside?" I didn't have time to try it on, but tossed it into my basket, purchased it, and wore it the next day.
Yes, I was wearing the latest style of sports bra and I was, well, not to pat my own back, but HOT! I could tell all the bikini-mamas were impressed. They would probably run right out to the store to try to find one too, right after they finished suntanning themselves into skin-cancer oblivion. Ha! I....I was Workout Girl! I was leading the pack!
I wore my new garment, oh, three or so times in the weeks that followed, back straight, chest out, lookin' gooood.
Then, yesterday, I was doing the laundry. And, out of the washing machine came this:
Wait! Had I bought two athletic tops, and if so, why had a I purchased something so lifeless, without shape, without style? Maybe this wasn't mine at all and....oh no!
Then it hit me. I approached the top, slowly, so as not to alarm the poor thing, pulled the neckline out very carefully, and looked down into the garment. NO! No, no, nononnonononononono! It can't be!
It was my stylish new sports bra! Inside out! Wait - no - it wasn't inside out. It was....the way it was supposed to be. Oh....my....God! OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!
No wonder everyone had been looking at my boobs! It wasn't because they were stylishly perky and fabulously reigned-in. It was because I was wearing the damn bra inside out.
Disclaimer that should have been on the tag: Please don't wear this garment like a complete idiot should the stocking clerk accidentally put the top inside-out on the hanger. There are no side seams on this garment. When turned inside-out, the bra seams go to the inside of the garment, and the tag that is printed directly on the fabric is in ink that blends in so you can't see it. This makes it appear as though the garment is right-side-out even when it isn't. Just say "No!" to sports-bra foolishness and only wear as directed. Not responsible for mental distress or injury due to mis-use of garment and subsequent hazing by bikini-mommies. Peri-menopausal women should consult with a physician before wearing this garment.
Here's the back view:
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Lots of odd things have been happening to me these past months. I can't spell anymore. I have no short-term recollection. I have to take reading glasses with me everywhere because I can no longer read any font smaller than 14 pica. I can't open medicine bottles anymore. I'm angry as hell. I'm headachy, hot, and exhausted. Only about 20% of my brain is working. All, according to my doc, due to the onset of peri-menopause.
I think there should be a Peri-Menopause Foundation. I think you should be able to get one of those helper-dogs when you enter peri-menopause. Or an interpreter - someone who can see tags on garments and remind you what words mean. Or maybe a stylist - someone who will tell you honestly when you're about to make a damn fool of yourself at the Naked-Y, in front of all the scantily-clad, 25-yr-old, mommies.
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