Trapped in my sports bra

I’m going to have to invest in new sports bras.  More of the kind that do up in the back.  Because, although I can clad myself in one of the pull-over-the-head types, if I very carefully manoeuvre around my damaged shoulder, getting this same sports bra off when it’s completely sodden with my post-exercise full-body sweat?  Nearly impossible.

copyrighted to above artist…

It’s a couple of months now since I had to start spinning my back-closure brassieres so that I can wear them.  David still needs to help me disrobe at the end of the day, because, by bedtime, my shoulder has said “Fuck It!” and its mobility has vanished.

My preferred sport bra, of which I have a 1/2 dozen, is the pull-over-the-head type that you buy at least one size too small, the type that squooshes your girls near-flat; so that, if you needed to run, like from a tiger or something, you actually could without giving yourself black eyes.  These are the good sports bras.  I feel supported in these bras, I can jump up and down without holding onto my boobs in these bras. Unfortunately, those sports bras, the working ones, if you attempt to get out of them while sweaty, are the equivalent to a spandex, bolero-style, straight jacket.  I remain trapped in its damp clutches until David is around.  Rissa just doesn’t have the upper body strength to get me out of the suckers.

At present, I have three crappy, do-up-in-the-back, sports bras.  You know the ones, the ones with no real support for any gal above an A cup. They come on a hanger, in a set of three – originally they were white, but after years of washing they are now a grey dinge.  “This bra comes in white, nude or grey dinge.”  Seeing as a frozen shoulder can take up to 24 months to heal, I’m either going to have to buy some more do-up-in-the-back sports bras, shell out some cash for front closure sports bras, or, horrors of horrors, I’m going to have to… hand wash them.  (shudder)

Why not just throw your exercise clothes in the washing machine after each work out, you ask?  Well, in Southern Ontario, unless it’s after 7:00 p.m. or on the weekend, you can’t just willy-nilly throw loads of laundry in.  They charge you an arm, a leg and 3/4 of your torso for pulling that shit.  I am not a freaking millionaire.  Plus, the idea of running the washing machine with a partial load?  I’m already feeling my mother’s hand  smacking me on the back of the head.  “YOU DON’T JUST WASH THREE THINGS IN THE WASHING MACHINE!!!  SOME PEOPLE DON’T EVEN HAVE WATER!!!”

So I’m down to spending money for the convenience of having enough accessible sports bras to last me the full week, or hand washing the three I have in the kitchen sink.  This is the perfect time to tap into my inner 1950s housewife.  I’ll make it a game.  I’ll put on some of my vintage clothes, tie on an apron and… oh for fuck’s sake, I can’t tie on an apron, not by myself… wait… wait… I could probably spin it though.  Problem solved!