I went on my feeble, little jog this morning, then headed to DD for my coffee. While out, I decided to stop at Target for a couple of camping supplies: batteries, twizzlers, bubble gum. You camp your way, I’ll camp mine.
I was still wearing my knee-length stretchys and racer-back top. Most of my hair was still in the bun I threw it in before the run, which means the straps of my sports bra weren’t hidden.
One of the things I love about being 40 is that I rarely feel self concious anymore, and this morning I was feeling extra-not self concious.
I, as it turns out, am a very approachable person – to strangers. I know me to be an overly critical bitch sometimes, but apparently this isn’t a vibe easily picked up on by the uninitiated.
After paying, I was on my way out the door when a Jersey-accented lady behind me (in similar attire, because that’s Wakefield pre-10am dress code) says, “Oh, I just hate those racer-backs, don’t you?”
I don’t know why, but I assume she is making reference to my VBS (visible bra straps, not vacation bible school).
“Yeah, ’cause you can’t get in or out of the racer-back bras without tearing a rotator cuff,” I reply.
“Well there’s that, but they also squeeze you and show your back fat.”
But then she walked in front of me and I realized she was right. Her back fat was all bubbled up in her armpits.
I think we’d be pretty good friends.