Help! I've Put on a Sports Bra and I Can't Get Out!

"Yes, I am. These shorts are workout shorts. Look! Here's the Fila symbol."

"Yes, Robin, but it's not 1982 anymore."

"But we bought this tank top in the Sports section."

"Yes, Robin, but Sportwear in a clothing store is not the same as athletic wear. You look like you've thrown together whatever you could find on the floor."

Again, awkward pause.

So, while we were in Florida for Thanksgiving, I took an afternoon with my Stepmom to go shopping. After a pointless trip to the mall in Daytona Beach--I'm a slow learner--we tried a large chain sports store. Two steps in the door and the two of us are grapping everything and cooing, "Oh, isn't this adorable!" and "These will match my wheels!"

Finally, loaded down with about forty-seven items, I entered a dressing room. Now, this is a store dedicated to sport apparel. Real sport apparel. The kind that fits close to the body. You know, Lyra or Spandex or whatever this stuff is made of, containing lots of elastic bands and straps. So, would you please explain to me why the fitting rooms are no bigger than an old-fashioned phone booth? No one ever pointed out that Superman's real Superpower was changing into his Superclothes in a three-by-three foot silo!

Anyway, I wasn't trying to kid myself. I grabbed all the L sizes I could find. I know I'm not the typical, lithe athlete. So, I strip down and ball my clothes into the corner. Sadly, I can not stand far enough away from the mirror to feel comfortable. My own image is right up in my face, waiting for this humiliating experience to begin. But, wait! I'm not negative about this, really. I'm excited! I get to pick out my new derby clothes!

Cool! I start with a simple black bra top that also covers the belly. I open it at the bottom and slide my hands in. I work the elastic band up over my elbows and ferret my fingers into the arm holes. The fact that my arms are now in an uncomfortable V-pattern does not register. Should I be concerned that I can no longer separate my elbows? Never crossed my mind.

With some effort, I begin to shimmy my arms further up into the arm holes. My left arm has freed itself, but my right arm is now pinned against my ear. Hmmm. It's been a long, long time since I've tried on a sports bra. I don't remember them being this, um, aggressive. One big swing of my arm and the right arm is free, too. Whew! Hold on now. This isn't right. The elastic band is under my armpits, the area that is supposed to be "supported" is losing blood flow, and the "shirt" part of this item is rolled up under the elastic and nestled under my chin. Well, this is attractive!

Oh, forget it. This is never going to work. I've got to get this thing off before anyone starts asking me, "How are you doing in there?" Here's where it gets worse. Have you ever tried to grab something that is lodged under your armpits? In movies, women just cross their arms and pull and whatever they are wearing just flies off. Damn, Hollywood! It doesn't work that way! I've crossed my arms around me, but I'm pulling and turning like a dog chasing it's tail. This thing isn't moving!

I've got to sit down. I'm working up a sweat! I'm going to have to ask for a sport towel soon and a water bottle. I take a break and gingerly settle on top of my mound of clothes. What if I can't get this off? What if I have to actually open the door and ask for help? What if they announce over the loudspeaker, "Customer needs assistance in fitting room three. Repeat. Customer is trapped in a bra top in fitting room three." Am I this big or just this out of shape? Or just exceptionally not limber? Or have my breast grown so much with my weight gain that I can't reach around behind me? Oh. My. Gawd! None of the answers to these questions is flattering!

Well, I can't live with that. So I get up, look into my determined eyes, and use my right arm to push my left arm over my right shoulder. I grab hold of the edge of the top, bend forward, and pull! And knock my head into the mirror. Fine. I can live with this. With my cheek pressed against the glass, I pull with all my might, and... we've cleared the shoulder folks! Disaster averted. Stand down. Call of the fighter jets. We can make it from here. Thanks.

Since when did shopping for athletic clothing become an aerobic sport in and of itself? By the time I had weeded out 95% of what I had picked out, I was exhausted! But the story still has a happy ending. I now own FOUR sporty miniskirts! (Actually, I only own two types, but with that effort I had to buy two of each after I found what actually fit!) And I found out that different brands have very different definitions of "Large." So, I was able to buy some tops, too.

Now, the next time I show up at Fresh Meat camp, I'll be the one shaking my derriere to show off the little white pleats in the back. At least I'll feel good about my outfit, even if I'm just learning how to duck-walk in my skates. There needs to be some fun within all this hard work, right?

Next stop: Hosiery!

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