Filling in this afternoon on a girlfriend’s social basketball team meant I was going to miss out on witching hour, have a run and maybe even shoot a hoop. I got excited and organised Grandies to babysit and went in search of some socks and a sports bra.
Sockies, yep, plenty. Boulder Holder? Oh no”¦
My bra department consists of eight stretchy maternity feeding crops and one fancy bra for special occasions (ok, I wear it to work once a week on Sunday for five hours), but no sports-worthy norg netting. I did buy one not long after my first baby was born, a maternity sports bra in fact, so keen was I to run up and down our rural cul-de-sac pushing a pram, ready to stop, drop and breastfeed at a moment’s notice! That didn’t happen. When it got too loose, I gave it away and never replaced it as the height of my sporting achievements these days is an occasional light jog down the driveway after the kids on their bikes.
With no time to get to town, try on, purchase, race home, prepare kid’s dinners and get back into town again, I did the only thing I could do, wore three of my stretchy bras together. I assume whatever you wear under your sports gear is socially acceptable as long as you don’t poke your opponent’s eye out with your chilly winter evening pink pointers and my three layers certainly made sure of that, they did not however provide much in the way of bounce support for the running that was required. There’s not a lot of ball catching to be done when you’re doing the chicken-wing run with your elbows at right angles, holding two boobs so they don’t smack you in the chin.