I have been through it this week with the sports bras, my friends. Like many women, I have a terrible time finding a sports bra that does what it’s supposed to do, and because I have other things going on in life, I decided I don’t have the energy to go on an endless quest for the perfect sports bra and resigned myself to off-the-rack ones that never really fit or do anything other than annoy me and ride up in the wrong places. However, it was recently brought to my attention that there is such a thing as an adjustable sports bra, a fact which has somehow eluded me all of these years. After many complex calculations, Mr. Typist helped me figure out the appropriate size and I ordered a (rather pricey) one from Amazon, which arrived this week. It took forever to figure out how to even get the thing on. That was its own workout in and of itself. After 45 minutes of trying to adjust and tweak and find the optimal settings, I wanted to cry and actually starting having a mild panic attack. It compressed and tucked everything in properly, but it felt like a metal chest plate all I wanted to do was rip it off. I could not believe a proper sports bra actually felt like that. I really had to work through my sensory issues with it. I had forgotten how much I hate, hate, hate restrictive clothing. It’s almost a phobia for me.
I think I was a fairly good natured kid and I don’t recall being prone to temper fits, but the times that I did have full-on meltdowns were always over clothes that I felt were restrictive, too tight, or otherwise impinged my freedom of movement. My mother tried to get me to wear a dickie once and it was World War 3. I found it incredibly upsetting to have my neck enveloped with what I deemed to be a extraneous piece of material there for no reason other than to torment me. I hated fussy dresses, slips, panty hose, stiff jeans, heels, pencil skirts (I still hate those) and anything that I felt claustrophobic in. Even now, my wardrobe is mostly composed of loose, flowing garments that are easy to slip on and off. I have exactly one button-up shirt, and even that one is long and loose. I’ll wear turtlenecks, but they have to be more of the cowl-neck variety or be very slack around the neck. I’ve barely been able to tolerate the fairly stretchy, non-constrictive sports bras I’ve worn up until now, so adjusting to this new one has required a lot of mental stamina. However—as daunting as it’s been, I have to admit, the new bra has a lot of advantages. It’s improved my posture, it looks much better under my tank tops, it stays in place, and it got me through several rounds of heavy deadlifting without needing tugging or adjustments. I’m a little embarrassed that I’ve been wearing crappy sports bras for so many years, but one turns a corner when one is ready, I suppose.
This whole near-debacle makes me wonder what I would have done if I had lived in the Victorian era during the time of corsets. Walked into a river with a pocket full of stones, I imagine. I know that there’s been something of a trend of women “reclaiming” corsets and finding them empowering, but that will never, ever be me. Also, side note, a casual scan through Google and the history of corsets made me realize that human beings have a long history of being deeply insane when it comes to fashion. So I count myself lucky that I live in era of relative freedom and choice when it comes to clothing, as much as I grumble about the poor quality.
All that having been said, I did a 150-pound deadlift last week! That’s a record. I only did one, and we used the pads, but still, technically that means I can lift my own body weight, so if I am ever stuck in a ravine and have to pull myself out, it’s comforting know that I’m going to be just fine.
--Kristen McHenry
Fun post, Kristen!