The plan was simple. Put on a padded gym top. Go to the gym. Look busy on a recumbent bike.
And I did. Look busy.
Busy trying to find where the pad for my right boob had gone. Not that I saw it go anywhere. I just sensed in mid-magazine article that the right side of my chest was drooping toward my knee cap. Which, if I wasn’t careful, was going to get in the way of my rigorous exercising.
While the three pedalers beside me pretended to be impressed with their books, I did a fourth two-hand pat down with the same results. Padding. No padding.
The pedals were still swirling behind me when I turned the corner to the ladies locker room. I smirked. Half of me was at attention. While the other half was taking a nap, perhaps.
I patted my bullet proof bra pad, my hand rebounding off its cushion. Only…maybe…
Ah, forget maybe. There it was. My vacationing bra pad. Slumped behind the other, like moral support.
I skipped the rest of the bike “workout” and everything else in the gym. Because sometimes exercise doesn’t look like exercise.
Some folks run. Some heave weights. Some move furniture on their backs.
Some wrestle a dysfunctional a bra pad into its proper place in the locker room.
It’s all good.