Straitjacket

I am in the midst of a power-struggle with my new running bra.

I don't like it much. I have been wearing one of those "smash-'em-flat" running bras for 20 years, so maybe I am just being inflexible; but Dr. Perfect was very specific about the sort of bra I have to have if I want to start running again. No smashing the art installation he has created on my chest, please.

I went to Gart's, found this Valkyrie-style thing he wants me to wear, and took it into the changing room. My range of motion is still not quite recovered, and the bra has a bizarre design. Anyway, I ended up trapped in it, writhing like a fish on a hook with my arms pinned straight up in the air . Where the hell was Simon?! I whisper-yelled for him, but he was out of earshot. I was in a lather and about to cry with frustration when a woman whipped open the changing-room door, causing me to shriek like a...girl. "OH, MY GOD, I AM SO SORRY!" she gasped, goggling at my compromised position and Frankenstein torso. Damn! She was gone again before I could ask her to GET ME OUT OF THIS THING.

It really wasn't fair to be mad at Si. He was innocently wandering in the camping section and was confused when I emerged, pink and sweating, with Medusa-like hair and a homicidal expression. Poor guy. How could he know that I had not only exhausted myself getting the bra off, but the added exertion of whapping the bra-from-hell on the floor of the changing room about 15 times, in a rage.

I've moved on from this experience, which is why it really seemed unfair to be similarly stuck this afternoon. I am getting a little better at disentangling myself, but not much. I was just home from a workout, writhing and sweating my way out of the straitjacket when Sara came barging into my room without knocking to complain about something Nathan had done. Right behind her was her little friend, J., who froze in horror at my bare, scar-covered boobs. "Can't you see I'm busy fighting with my bra? Get out!"