I wrote a post bemoaning the dearth of supportive sports bras for anyone with a D cup or larger.
I had just started my new workout regimen and I was frustrated with the constant battle to keep my boobies in check while I did a jumping jack. My workouts sounded a lot like this:
"One, two, ow - my eye! Three, four, son of a bitch! Five, six - now the other one is free too?! Seven, eight - break! I need a break. I've got to put these suckers back where they belong."
Don't get me wrong, I'm always happy to find an excuse for a break during my workouts, but tit was getting ridiculous. (Did you see my Freudian slip typo there? I decided to leave it, because it's just so perfect.)
I wrote my post and hundreds - nay, a tad over a thousand once it made the front page of HuffingtonPost - came out to voice their lament as well and to offer support and suggestions for me.
Today the Hubs is sick. It started yesterday when he woke up and complained of full body aches. I honestly didn't believe him. We had an early day yesterday and I really thought he was trying to get out of helping with the morning routine. He's just such a baby when he's sick it's hard to know when you can believe him.
Remember a few weeks ago when I wrote about Adolpha spending so much time in the nurse's office? Well, she comes by her hypochondria honestly. The Hubs can turn a splinter in his finger into a case of gangrene. Instead of the boy who cried wolf, he is the man who cried sick.
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