It's April, when those of us in New England begin to have faith that the air might soon be warm enough to let our bare skin touch it. Dare we even dream about sand, surf, and summer frolicking? I know that as soon as the air invites me to pack away my mittens until November (who am I kidding? October.), I start thinking BEACH.
My local Target was already thinking BEACH in February, even though the store is in Nashua, where snow plows sit idling at the ready, round the clock, for six months. But I wouldn't indulge the BEACH thought until recently, when I ventured into that bathing suit section that's had me shivering on every trip to the store since Valentines Day.
As I perused the itsy bitsy teeny weeny goods, I had a revelation on an issue that's been humming in the back of my head for a while. For the past year, ever since I upped my mileage and began chasing speed, people have told me I look like a runner--even when running wasn't the topic of conversation. At first, I thought it was fantastic. I thought it meant I'd arrived and been admitted to a club. Then I realized what made them know I'm a runner. It wasn't my fantasy of having Kara Goucher's legs or Lolo Jones's abs. Because I don't have those things, damnit.
It was the hard, ugly fact that I have Paula Radcliffe's chest.
The only time in my life that I have been "endowed" was for about 8 months after having a baby. Keep in mind that I nursed for a full 12 months--my breasts were just hell-bent on retreat 3/4 of the way to that year. And because nursing sucked (couldn't resist--sorry) for both Henry and me, I didn't really appreciate my brief foray into women's "foundation garments."
Yes, it's true, I buy bras for girls, and not just because they're cheaper.
Since my 8 months of boobage, I can live--and even run--with the most minimal support, by which I mean my bra, not my cheering section--I need the equivalent of serious underwire in that department. But in bras, I wear a size that is characterized by words like "nearly," "training," and "-lette," and padding seems like such a grand lie that I won't even go there. I can't even bring myself to cop a feel for a self-exam, it's just that bad.
So even though many of you will probably comment that I should be happy to lack the "bounce-factor," I made a decision in the middle of that Target. I will no longer buy training bras and rationalize that they are for serious runners training for a marathon. I want my cups to runneth over.
I don't want to be a runner who looks like this:
I want to be a runner who looks like this:
I'm gonna put in some boobies. I think this can only help my identity crisis.