The long run had been finished and the trek home complete. All that remained to do was gloriously shower and watch television in the cool, dark, air conditioned confines of home. Draw the curtains, turn up the air, make the place as cave-like as possible because after 11 miles in the hot, sweltering sun I have come to realize that sunshine is vastly overrated. First off are the running sneakers that have welded themselves to my feet, as I hope that I don’t find blood stains on my new pair of running socks or a larger hole than what I left the house with in an older pair. Peeling away the layers, pants are next.
Oh this feels good.
Now for the best part: the sports bra.
BE FREE GI–wait, ow, that’s not right.
Ok, let’s try this from a different angle.
BE FRE–No, wait, now it’s not moving at all. I unhooked it, didn’t I?
Like a bloodsucking leech that refuses to disengage from my skin, I stand there with one arm trapped inside the bra and my neck contorted into an angle I had not thought possible. I can’t help but wonder how I got into the bra. This is really ruining that “Ahhhhh” moment right now. My mind races with all the possible methods of escape: I got it on sale, maybe I could just cut it off. If only I’d done more yoga, I could contort myself into whatever shape this bra needs. HOW CAN I BE TRAPPED IN IT WHEN NOT A MOMENT AGO IT FELT LIKE MY BOOBS WERE FALLING OUT THE BOTTOM?
Alongside the visitation of Aunt Flo, sports bra removal makes me hate being a woman. I start to think of all the ways I hate being a woman, I mean, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do as I languish in this piece of apparel with a vice like grip on my chest.
Finally, in a fit of rage, like a dog freeing itself from under a fence or a cat from a box, I begin to flail and suddenly am free of my cage. The feeling of relief is glorious, miraculous, amazing. This is the runner’s high, I’ve never felt more wonderful in my entire life.
And then I get in the shower.