While I’m not entirely sure my mom knows how to use the internet in order to GET to my blog, I write it as though she reads every single entry.  I know that may be hard to believe, since many of you have no doubt thought, “Does she speak to her mother with that mouth?” knowing that the f-bomb used to be my number one blogged word of all time. Aunts and uncles and other respectable adults have told my mom they’ve read my blog, and so I think she’s always nervous that I’m going to disgrace myself or shame the family or whatnot.  Running into my high-school-friend’s mom at the D&W, she’s met with: “Oh, yes, I read all about Jenny and how she threw up all over L.A. last month!” That day I will get a call: “Mrs. So-and-So reads your blog, Jenny! So be careful!” and I’m all “Okay, mom.” Eye roll.

This conversation echoed through my mind as I mentally started writing a blog entry about boobs in the sports bra aisle of Dick’s Sporting Goods.

Every person hits a point with their personal weight when enough is enough, and MY “enough” was when my bra size became too big to still be considered “cute” by consumer apparel standards.  I think I was at a Target and some little polka dot number caught my eye.  I fumbled to the back of the rack, pulling at tags, looking at sizes, until I realized that it only went up to a certain size, and I literally and disappointingly said “Ohhhh,”  out loud and looked to the bottom row, with the odd-looking 56 double-Gs or whatever — the bras that could be used to slingshot watermelons — and thought, THAT IS WHERE YOU ARE HEADED, JENNIFER LYNNE, IF YOU DO NOT TAKE ACTION.

“Action” means exercise, which in my case means running, something that I’ve yet to convince myself I really enjoy.  My current sports bras are of a lighter time, when my cups didn’t runneth over so.  After a couple not-so-comfortable runs, I literally had to pull one aside and say, “C’mon, brah. You’re really not even trying, anymore.” And it was all, “I HAVE A MUSTARD STAIN ON ME, THAT IS YOUR FIRST SIGN, BUSTY MCBUSTERSON.”

So there I was, in Dick’s Sporting Goods.  For once I was thankful that I was NOT helped by a sales associate — I didn’t want to reveal that I had trouble discerning whether my ladies needed “medium control” or “maximum control.”  I mean, how much boob movement distinguishes the two? I mean, I do want these puppies on lock-down, but if they’re gonna be large and in charge for a while, I don’t want them squashed into non-existence as I’m traipsing down the Monon Trail, am I right ladies?

Listen, it took a lot of macaroni and cheese and Jack Daniels to get me here.  It would be easy to get down on myself for having to pick the sports bra WITH the built in underwire (totally the special needs sports bra).  But I would be remiss if I didn’t have that Beavis-and-Butthead, sixteen-year-old-boy moment of, “Heh. Heheheh. My boobs are HUGE.  Awesome.”