A Little Background.
Yesterday I liberated myself not from the oppression that is being a woman living in a man's world (because, after all, I'm a woman striving therein, i.e. I can take you), but rather, the oppression that results from a sportsbra that no longer offers me the support I need. Maybe I should rephrase that: A sportsbra that only provided one breast the support it needed, while leaving the other to flop around whimsically for all passerby to enjoy.
There are a lot of names one could call me ('snotty,' 'conceited,' 'arrogant,' 'sexy,' 'humble?'), but 'disloyal' is not one of them. I've had the above sportsbra since 2001. Between this one and another one that I stole from a roommate who I didn't like, I've taken this bra with me to every treadmill, every track and every running-on-the-beach expedition that I've since attended. I've washed it regularly and stood up for it when people called it 'ugly.' But alas, the bra did not do the same favors for me. While I put my faith in it, it talked back to me and mocked me publicly like a vindictive god with some major chip on his shoulder.
As with any long-term relationship, it was hard to let go. Friends and family had been telling me to get out of this particular dead-end since 2003. I held out until this year, 2006. It all started when I found myself walking around Manhattan with one boob flopping around, unsupported, while the other sat there and laughed. At that point, I gave my sportsbra an ultimatum: All or nothing. I'd always heard that if it came to this point, it probably wouldn't work out anyhow. That was indeed the case. About a month ago, I was at a store admiring a replacement. I even went as far as to place it on the counter for purchase. But, at the very last moment, something inside me hesitated. It wasn't right.
The straw that broke this camel's back.
A month later (Saturday to be exact), I looked at my profile in the mirror only to notice that, holy shit, my boobs look like flapjacks! This is not healthy! A good bra wouldn't let it come to this. I decided I was going to finish what I had started. And not only was I going to replace the bastard, I was going to buy back-up.
I love the feeling you get a few months beyond having broken up with a non-attentive lover. At this point, you have endured the majority of the pain, catered to the unhealthy images of your lover with another and reconfigured your life so that it doesn't include the once-significant other. After not just a little pain, you wake up one morning and think, "What the hell did I ever see in that jerk?" And, not to be discounted, "If I never would have ended it with X, I never would have met Y."
Only, in my case, X is a pair of flapjack boobs and Y is the resurgence of my old perky ones.