one of my regular runs goes along a lane very like this one. at least it is like it a bit earlier in the year, when the early summer wild flowers are out. by now nettles and brambles are in charge and it is less picturesque and considerably more hazardous. but you don’t want to look at nettles and brambles, do you?
anyway, was on that lane yesterday morning when I encountered that moment that all female runners dread.
my sports bra proved unequal to the task allotted it.
(please note – if you are male and/or not interested in bra stories, just stop reading now. it’s not going to get any better.)
some background here: have been wearing same sports bra since I took up running a few years back. (yes, I know – am sluttish cheapskate.) have been needing a new one for at least six months, since it (a) lost one of its two hook and eyes on the main back strap and (b) the little divided sections where you put the shoulder strap fasteners gradually all coalesced into one big loop, thus making it very easy for one shoulder strap to go native and crawl back up my shoulder, to leave me with one securitised and one non-securitised asset, as the barrow boys in red braces would say.
after six months, I finally bought a bloody new bra, about two weeks ago. but because I didn’t bring it in and take it up to my room straight away, I then lost the new bra. so every time I’ve gone running since then, I’ve had the thought process, “Damn, where’s that new bra? oh God, can’t face going to look for it now. not in the bombsite that is my house. it’s probably in the *insert whichever part of your house you might expect to find a stray carrier bag here* but I can’t face going to look, in case it’s not.”
and there is potential for a lot of me ranting on here about the ability of my family to turn the house into a bombsite. and why I do not seem to be able to train anyone, least of all myself, to put things away. every single fucking horizontal surface in my house is covered in toppling heaps of crud, crapola and stuff. all of it dusty, much of it dog-chewed.
I did the whole Flylady thing a few years back but the system of it drove me demented AND made me sad. could not bear the idea that I was supposed to wake up thinking, “oooh, it’s the third Tuesday in the month, time to sanitise the kitchen bin lid, hurrah!” seriously, shoot me NOW.
so, blame the kids, boom and bust housekeeping it is, until I find a better alternative. probably when I am two and a half years sober. if we can still find the door to the outside world by then, that is.
and indeed, Boobageddon struck me and my old bra. and you know that idea that we always have a choice? well my choices were to run home clutching my chest like Babs Windsor in Carry on Camping, or to completely take everything off and reinstate my modesty. so I did the latter. and it was fine, and no-one came along and I felt quite naughty as I ran on afterwards…
as a consequence this morning I looked for new bra, and found it. in the place where I thought it would be. humph. why hadn’t I looked there before in the last few weeks? put it on. same bra. much better, newer. but, what is this? oh, for PETE’S SAKE.
the shop assistant hadn’t removed the two inch disc security tag from it. so I now have a large plastic lump on one strap, giving me a very small but pronounced dowager’s hump. Quasimini, perhaps.
and the shop is in Nearby Market Town where I hardly ever go. and the road to NMT is closed for roadworks for a MONTH. and I would have to find the arsebuggering receipt in the disaster zone that is my handbag, otherwise they will think I’ve shop lifted it anyway.
so went for run with new bra and hump. not uncomfortable, just a bit annoying. bra problem not what you would call solved, exactly. now just have a different problem.
and what, precisely, does this have to do with getting sober?
well, maybe it is to do with learning to not give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks and being prepared to strip to the waist in public if necessary whilst stone cold sober.
perhaps it is about not flipping giving up whatever happens, whatever the forces of chaos throw at you. because it would have been really, really easy to not go for a run this morning. but I ran, because I am a runner. in the same way that I do not drink, because I am sober.
or maybe this is the Universe telling me gently that now would be a good time to start to get to grips with the domestic disorder… oh Lord. I hope it’s not that…
88 days to go!