My Buddy and Me.

Back in the day when I used to be able to FIT into Victoria’s Secret lingerie, I had a favorite bra. It was a purple bra with lacy trim, and it fit me in ways other bras just couldn’t come close to. And one thing that was unique about that particular bra was that its clasp was in the front, tucked in between the girls as opposed to the back.

I loved that bra. It was my lucky bra. I had my first kiss (ever) with my first boyfriend while wearing that bra. Yeah, we were the best of friends, my bra and I.

One day I got suckered into going to PT for my boyfriend’s ROTC class. I knew that he just wanted me to come along so he could impress me with his physical prowess. But what neither of us expected was his superior “inviting” me to join in on the jumping jacks. And when I say “inviting,” I mean that he barked at me to join or leave.

And being the uber-shy, easily intimidated dillweed that I was at the time, I hopped to!

Unfortunately for me, I was wearing my favorite bra. Yep, my purple pal. Little did I know that my bra was about to betray me in the worst way.

[You’re already imagining it, aren’t you. Ugh, it’s just such a painful memory! So painful, in fact, that I’ve never told a living soul… UNTIL NOW. Not even my best friend. At least, I don’t think I told her. But whatever, you get the idea.]

So there I was, jumping up and down to the drill sergeant’s count along with at least 12 other people, all of them being cute guys—I was the only gal. And then it happened. I don’t know how long I had been jumping before I realized that my girls were a little TOO free. Yes, it’s true. They’d escaped their pretty purple binding and were flopping freely whichever way they desired.

My favorite bra had chosen that moment to “give up the ghost.” Or, to be more precise, the clasp had come undone and I had to scramble to fix my bra and re-adjust the girls in front of all those guys. *sigh*

Oh, and did I mention that I’m a full-figured busty kinda gal?

Needless to say, I was horrified and completely humiliated. And I will forever wonder just how much nipple was visible underneath that thin shirt I was wearing.



(Wow, I had no idea there was a bra made for those whose headlights aren't permanently on "high beam!" *wink-wink nudge-nudge*)

I’ll admit that remembering that terrifying experience makes me giggle to myself these days. But I never went to another PT after that and I never will again. No matter how many hot, sweaty men there may be out there running laps and doing jumping jacks. I’m pretty sure I’ve been scarred for life. Blasted bra.