This year, on October 13th, the Nearly Perfect Husband and I will celebrate our twenty fifth wedding anniversary.

Who knew, when he showed up with his ‘add’ paperwork on the second day of Professor Katim’s Freshman English Class at Middlesex Community College, that he would one day be the man who proactively pretends that I am the one who wants to watch Bachelor in Paradise?

Not me, that’s not who.

So I decided, in July, that one of my presents to him was to bring my sexy back.  Because to be healthier is a sexy thing, and also it will be nice to grow old together and, you know, be able to climb stairs and stuff.

So I signed up for this class at Self-Proclaimed Perfect Boy Gabe’s gym, which is a very serious place focused on strength and conditioning and lots of athletes go there and their jerseys are hanging from the ceiling, which I think looks cool.

And also they don’t have any classes where people touch you.

Seriously, it is astounding that you cannot find an exercise class where a sweaty stranger doesn’t at least have to hold your feet for sit ups.  The last thing I want to do, when I am dripping sweat from nearly every possible place, is to have someone I don’t know connected to me!

A teacher yelling “Okay, ladies, partner up!” is enough to make me want to rip open a large Hershey bar, right there on the padded floor, and mow it in protest.

Clearly, I’m not a good class person.

But I do like the idea of going somewhere that is not my house to exercise, and I don’t want to go to a class-type big gym so, when I got an e-mail saying there was a woman’s class starting at Gabe’s focus-y athlete gym I was all… hey! I need to get  back into shape, it is time, after a decade of being all “eh, whatever” (happily so, mind you). And our anniversary was coming so I thought “Perfect, what better present than bringing my sexy back as we click past good ol’ 25 years of marriage? How wonderfully giving a human being am I?!”

Wicked.

Wicked giving.

Because this morning it started with the bra.

Okay, so if I was going get my sexy back I needed gym clothes because I was NOT wearing lycra.  Nah uh. Not this chick.

So, whilst at Sports Authority the other day, I picked up some decidedly not lycra pants and some nice, loose t-shirts and a couple of new sports bras.

Under Armour sports bras.

Because football players wear Under Armor and I was about to go all football-tough.

With bras.

?!

So this morning, when my alarm rang at 6:00 to get me up and out of bed for my 7:00 class, I was admittedly very blurry eyed. John, ever the helper and very excited about this anniversary present, woke up so that he could go downstairs and hit the button for the coffee while I got ready.

So I splashed water on my face and deodorant-ed (important) and pulled on my new exercise pants and reached for my bra.

I had two, because one said “light support” and one said “heavy support” and I had no idea which one I needed so I bought both.

So I grabbed the “light support” one and I put it on and I do not think they marked it right because maybe it should have been marked “wicked light support” because basically it was doing about as good a job as a sling shot would do trying to hold two jiggly balls of molten lava.

It wasn’t going to hold them for long and then someone was going to get hurt.

So that bra was right out and I reached for the one labeled ‘heavy support’.

Which was .. well.. allow me to describe it.

It opened in the front… with a zipper.

And so I unzipped the zipper and whipped it around – now I was running late because I did not count on having bra issues this morning – anyway, I whipped it around my back and tried to bring the front together but it is made out of some sort of stretch-y material that is so heavy-duty so that you have to wrestle your … ahem… assets into the bra and then you have to zip them up into it.

Did I mention that I wear reading glasses?

No?

Oh, I do.

So the zipper is about six inches from my chin and I cannot see it, and my reading glasses are nowhere to be found.

So I’m trying to hold everything in place, inside the damn bra, and pull the fabric to the point where I can zip the flucking thing up and..

Screw it.

So I reach into my drawer and pull out a bazillion year old exercise bra and stretch it over my head and I get stuck.

Completely, totally stuck.

And now I’m laughing because my arms are in such a position that I cannot unstuck myself and now I’m going to have to call John upstairs to help me get out of my exercise bra and that is just not sexy at all.

But I finally expel myself from the stoopid bra and find another one – only a thousand years old – and now I’m fine so I go downstairs and John hands me coffee and I head out the door.

With an emergency Hershey Bar.

You know, just in case.

Thanks for readin’.

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