Jogging: No Pain, More Gain, No Problem

I recently decided to take up jogging.  This comes as a shock to my family since I’ve never jogged before in my life.  Walked, yes.  Biking, yes.  Hiking, weight lifting, swimming, yes.  But never jogging.  I was always too puny to jog.  My persistent allergy to the entire state of Florida has always prevented me from having the lung power to jog.  But, lately, I felt like taking a good jog.  First, I consulted with my husband on the matter.  I often seek his wise counsel before I do something stupid.  Sometimes, rarely, but sometimes he can talk me out of it.

“Do you think I’ll drop dead of a heart attack if I start jogging at my age?” I asked him.

He laughed.  That’s all.  He just laughed.  I wasn’t too sure how to take that.  And…I never did get an answer.  So, I decided to just do it. 

Naturally, being me, I had to have all the proper gear for this endeavor.  I ventured to my local sports shop to make some purchases.  After going through a lot of choices, I settled on a pair of cross training shoes that felt comfortable, added a few pair of socks, selected a pair of bicycle shorts and then…the woman helping me informed me that I should do something about my bosom.

“What?”  I looked down at my chest.   I wasn’t too sure where she was going with her comment.  Was she suggesting I needed a boob job, or something?

“Your breasts aren’t…er…small.  You’ll need a proper sports bra to reduce painful bounce.”

“Painful bounce?”  That didn’t sound good.

Despite my trepidation, I followed her across the store and allowed her to show me the best selling sports bra line.  I picked two that looked reasonable and went into the ladies changing room.  Selena waited outside the door of the cubicle.

After considerable grunting, several curse words, and a very uncomfortable increase in body temperature that resulted in perspiration, I managed to get the @#!@% first sports bra on.

“Are you okay in there?” Selena’s muffled voice called through the slatted door…for the tenth time.

“Fine. Fine.  I think I got it on now,” I answered.  Indeed.  Having the sports bra on was one thing, having it become part of your exoskeleton was another thing altogether.  “Just one hitch, though,” I wheezed. 

“What’s that?” Selena asked.

“I can’t breathe.”

“Oh, dear.”  Selena knocked on the door.  “May I come in?”

“Of course,” I groaned as I put a hand on the wall to keep myself upright.

Selena came in and shut the little door behind her.  She peered at my chest for a moment, then smiled. “Well, it looks like a perfect fit.”

“Perfect fit?  It’s squeezing the life out of me.”

“It’s supposed to be rather tight.  It helps prevent—

“Painful bounce,” I finished for her.   “Yeah. I got that part.”

Fast forwarding this story, I ended up having to buy the dumb sports bra anyway, simply because I could not get the @#!$# thing off.  I didn’t have the upper body strength required to pull something that tight over my head.  When I arrived home, Hubster aka Hubby-Poo met me at the door.  His smile quickly faded when he saw the look on my face.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, following me into the bedroom, his face a mask of concern.

“Sort of,” I squeaked out.

“Why is your face blue?”

“Oh, God.  My face is blue?”

He nodded.  “A bit.”

I pulled my shirt off, revealing my new bounce-free sports bra.  Hubster stared at it.  “What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s supposed to prevent painful bounce.  The bigger question is: can you help me get this thing off?”

He studied the contraption for a moment.  “I think so.”

“You think so?  What do you mean, you think so?  Do I have to go to the @#!@% emergency room to get out of this thing?”

“Calm down.  I’ll get it off.”

It went something like this.  Hubster grabbed the bottom of the front of the sports bra and pulled it upward.  I howled in protest as his fingernails scratched my skin.  He apologized, then tugged again.  His hand slipped and he accidentally punched me under the chin, sending me reeling backwards, my arms wheeling wildly as I tried to get my balance.  As I was falling backwards onto the bed, my husband grabbed the sports bra at the cleavage line and pulled me back upright.  Our dog Mooch, watching from nearby, wagged her tump and woofed, thinking mom and dad were playing some weird game.  I groaned as Hubby-Poo tried pulling the bra off by the straps.  The action succeeded in lifting me onto my toes, but the sports bra didn’t budge an inch.

“Put your arms up,” he demanded.

“How up do you want them? They’re already so up I’m losing circulation,” I grumbled.  “Ouch!”

He tugged, my body twitched, I hopped, rocked, and slid sideways.  He pulled, we hopped in the other direction.  I screamed when he pulled my hair by accident.  Mooch woofed and hopped alongside of us.  Hubby-Poo tried to shove her aside with his leg, became unbalanced and again accidentally cuffed me under the chin when his grip slipped off the bra.

“ACH!!!  GET THIS THING OFF ME!!!” I yowled, getting alarmed, frustrated, and worried that the bra had become a permanent fixture.  “I’m getting claustrophobic and my arms are falling asleep.”

“Here. Try bending forward at the waist.  Maybe I can get a better grip,” he suggested.

I anchored my behind against the wall and dutifully bent forward at the waist with my arms still over my head.  He grabbed the bottom portion of the sports bra and yanked…and yanked.  After a lot of grunting, he managed to get the bra up around my chin.  Now my arms were trapped over my head and squooshed up around my face, held together by the elastic contraption that had become a part of me.

“Gnnt thssss  thgggg  offfff,” I said through my squished face.  “Aymmm  gnna kllll  smmonnnn  ffff  yooooo dnnnnn  gnnnt thsss thggg offff.”

My husband started laughing.  I glared at him.

“Stay put, hun.  I’m getting the camera.”

I hopped closer to him and gave him a squished look that would fry a buzzard.  He got the message and started tugging on the bra again. 

Tug, hop, tug, hop, OUCH!!!, tug, tug, hop, hop, @#!$%@, OWWWWW.  Tug, hop. I pressed my butt against the wall and tried not to budge as my husband put one foot on one of my shoulders and yanked hard at the sports bra.  I felt like my shoulder was going to dislocate. It took twenty minutes, but he finally got the @#%!$ off.

“Never again!” I shouted.

Meanwhile, my husband was examining the sports bra he held in his hands.  It had shrunken to the size of an average rubber band.  “What the hell made you think you could wear this?”

I stared at the bra.  “It didn’t look that small on the rack.  And it is my size.”

He looked at the size printed on the tag.  “Yeah?”  He flung the offensive garment onto the bed.  “So, you goin’ jogging today?”

“Um…I think I’ve had enough exercise for one day.  I’m just gonna go sit down for a few hours.”

“What’s painful bounce?” Hubby-Poo asked.

“Something I’m gonna do to you if you ever let me out the door to go jogging,” I calmly explained.

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard    www.cdblizzard.com

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile.