My Support System

It was Saturday night in New York City.  I was not out painting the town, or hitting the clubs.  I was there on business.  I was there to achieve a goal, to accomplish something that I have long desired to do.  I trained hard for this endeavor and I was ready.    All except for one small detail.

Well.  Two details.  Two HUGE Details.

I. Forgot. My. Sportsbras.

That's right. 

Me, Double D, with the three times preggo but no times nursing, huge, hefty-size fun bags forgot her sportsbras.  And no, that is NO TYPO- I wear two. 

Two very serious, very expensive, unyielding, ugly-ass sports bras. 

I need them. 

I will NOT run without them.

I frantically sent a text message to my cousin who regularly runs braless, and let her know about my devastating discovery.  The agony that I was feeling did NOT translate via text and she replied with a breezy, "just wear your bra." 

I stared back at the small phone screen.  She clearly did not understand and who could blame her.  You can't fault a homeless person who fails to empathize with the millionaire whose diamond shoes are too tight.  The same logic applies here. 

"That is not possible." I whimper to no one in particular.

I learned a few thing that weekend.  I learned that Duane Reade, the popular drug store chain in Manhattan, does NOT sell sports bras.  I learned that although you can purchase a pair of pants made only of neoprene on the corner at 3AM, sports bras are much less readily available.   

I did not sleep well my mind spinning, thinking of my dilemma.  I pondered my options and came up with a few. 

I would run the race in my Spanx, my suction cup tank top and the three underwire bras I had brought along for the weekend. Sure, I would likely suffer severe chaffing and bleeding but at least I wouldn't knock myself unconscious while I ran. 

OR

I would hide in the bushes of Central Park, lying in wait for some unsuspecting albeit well endowed and well supported female runner to pass by and I would take her down.  I am not usually a violent person but desperate times called for desperate measures.

In the end we were able to find a fix and I wore several of her teeny tiny little laughable bras.  Bras that would fit snugly on Barbies little sister, Skipper.  I ran 6.2 miles with my girls being held up by barely enough lycra and spandex to fashion a swimmers cap but I did survive.

After the race my sweet cousin suggested I take the bras home after the race, restating the fact that she "hardly ever uses them."  I thanked her but said I didn't think it would be fair, my bigger bras would just make fun of them.