as you may or may not know, we love to walk back the crick (that would be "creek" in non-philly terms but i have never pronounced it that way). L refers to this as our "therapy sessions" while i refer to it as a "ward-off". either way we are saving lots of money by not needing to visit a psychologist (sorry, catherine) with the added benefit of exercise. it's a WIN, WIN, no?
since we are often back the crick at a specific time we pretty much run into the same people every morning or afternoon, depending on when we are able to go. for instance there are the 6 very friendly african-american, older gentlemen we meet at our halfway point, their starting point. there is the sweet man, eric, with his beautiful dog (i forget what it is: very large and very white) who shall remain nameless because i have no retention skills...it's like tag, toggle, target or something like that. laura will remember. there is the woman who walks a bajillion miles to take her children to school then runs who-knows-what on the trail. the woman and man with their dogs who kick-ass running; they put us to shame. one of our favorites is the man who cheers on his dog at the top of his lungs when he runs. he.is.sheer. awesome. and, of course, our pacer. we "fight" him to the end. Laura loves loves loves him.
there are also the one-timers...like the man taking his python for a walk (around his neck!), the man who had his son next to him on another bike with a rope around his chest to keep him going. i'm pretty sure he received the toughest workout ever that day and the car full of young, reefer-reeking males...in which case we turned around.
and then...there is the "bbr" otherwise known as the big boob runner.
she is a very friendly, very much older woman who has the most enormous chest you've ever seen. and they are quite obviously fake. and, AND this is why she stands out more than anything: she never wears a bra. ever. every morning she runs by and greets us with a little nod and smile and we, of course, smile back, then cringe when she passes by.
honestly? i'm a DD cup or E depending on the make. and my girls need to be supported. they can't be swinging to and fro freely, not even during a fast-paced walk let alone a leisurely jog.
they hurt my back.
they make sleeping at night on my tummy not very comfy.
my bras look more like therapeutic wear than those cute, itty bitty, victoria's secret beauties.
they are "dense". i love that they have this reputation.
they are estimated to weigh 10lbs. awesome.
i've had 5 mammograms now; it's amazing how those suckers (yep, intended) can be manipulated.
most of all? i haven't been able to go bra-less since i was about 18 and even then i was a runner and it was not a great idea. so i just don't get it. not at all.
2 weeks ago i took my kids to our dentist (who is the cutest thing ever and has completely ridden my fear of going to the dentist!) for their cleaning. i was sitting in the waiting room reading a book when this woman came out of one of the rooms. it was the "bbr"! i immediately texted laura to let her know. i almost didn't recognize her with her winter coat on, her hair down.
unfortunately there is more to this story but HIPA exists.
i did think of "bbr" the other day while at old navy looking for a shirt to walk in. i found one. it's super cute with a little zipper for my keys on the side. it's pink, matches the strip on my yoga pants and fits like a dream! oh, and it has nice little cups fashioned, even for dora and dorothy, my girls. i like to support them wherever i go.
Just a few observations here:
The white dog? No idea what kind it was, it was a rare breed that i cannot remember, but the guy's name was Andy. Andy and Tag.
Also, you totally forgot the awesome older gentleman who tips his hat to us when we see him. What ever happened to manners like that? I love him. Sigh.
The pacer? I wish he'd never come back. I dislike our pacers immensely. Why do we need to have pacers anyway? I say we don't.
The car full of pot-smoking men? That stared you down? Alarming and enough to make us turn around and head for home. No messing around with that.
The woman who walks her kids to school every morning, nowhere near Valley Green then passes us on the trail 30 minutes later? She's hard core. We call her the Matrix Lady (actually another friend's nickname for her) because she's always decked out in all black from head to toe. Seriously. Hat, gloves, jacket, tights, shorts and sneakers. I have since realized that she is a parent at my son's school and that my kids have another nickname for her as they do for most of the other parents that they see each morning. (I love their sense of humor.) But we won't discuss that here. Things have a way of coming back to me and that's a tad too close to home.
And, yes, BBR. No, amazingly, she does not wear a bra. She wears a teeny-tiny tank top. That's it. For real. Not to mention that they are about three sizes too big for her frame. Unbelievable. Doesn't that hurt?? Was she at the dentist because she knocked her teeth out whilst running?
And your shirt? Adorable. Too cute. Even in pink. And that's saying something.
But I will conveniently ignore the middle paragraph complaining of your dense girls. I have no sympathy for you, none whatsoever. I am the teenage girl who's grandmother would tell her every time she saw her not to worry, that eventually I would "blossom", but in the meantime there were exercises that I could do to help them along. Or the twenty year old who was told that when I had babies they would "come in" (I mean, what are they? Udders? Testicles that haven't dropped yet? Geez). The twenty-eight year old informed that after my babies were born, when I put on a little weight they'd "show up"(it's magical how and when they appear apparently) but for now they have these "cutlet things that you can put in your bra to fill it out a bit". As I am now 39 and could easily go bra shopping in the same department as my 13 year old daughter, as well as am virtually interchangeable with my brother when I cut my hair short, you can take your supportive minimizer and, well, you know...
For now, I will continue to perpetuate my delusion that I have a supermodel's frame and can still fit into those size 2 jeans that I rocked before babies. That's healthy, right?
L
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