The Wearing of the Pink - Breast Cancer Walk Recap

Whew! It's been almost two days since I finished one of the more major challenges of my life, and I'm finally finding time to sit down and write about my Very Pink Weekend. For anyone who happens not to know, I participated in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer this weekend in Chicago.

The total event is 39.3 miles over two days -- a marathon the first day and a half-marathon the second; and participants raise a minimum of $1800 each to benefit breast cancer treatment and research. My friend Dara and I flew in from Austin and Atlanta respectively to spend a couple of days sight-seeing and then tackle the event itself. We were a little nervous about all our walking around the city on Thursday and Friday, since we knew we'd need fresh legs to tackle such a big challenge. But anyone who's been to Chicago knows that it's pretty irresistible from a traveler's perspective. There are just too many things to see, do and eat to stay in the hotel room!

When we made it back to our hotel Friday evening for the "Event Eve" registration, I began to get the idea that this walk would be different from anything else I'd done. The atmosphere was electric and upbeat; people crowded around tables examining buttons, gear, and rain ponchos; and there was pink EVERYWHERE. We checked in, picked up our "fantastic fundraiser" hats [thanks to many of you who gave generously!] and made our way to the hotel restaurant for a hearty, early dinner. While there, we talked to the first of many die-hard walkers we would meet that weekend, who was preparing for her 6th year participating and wore a 'bedazzling' pink ribbon hat covered entirely in sequins.

Before setting the alarm for a freakishly-early 4:30 a.m., I made some notes in my journal about my frame of mind and reiterated some promises I'd made to myself during the very difficult training: do the best you can, go as far as you can, but don't push yourself so far that you get injured. When I originally set out to do the walk, I thought I would easily [ha, ha] master all 39.3 miles in my 12 weeks of training. But one pulled calf muscle and hundreds of lonely training miles later, I realized that my original goal may not have been the most realistic one -- especially when the opportunity to do long training walks on Sunday mornings also meant missing out on our only day to spend together as a family.

So, since the Avon Walk offers the option to do a half marathon both days (for a total of 26.2 instead of 39.3), I thought maybe that was more realistic for my current phase of life and in the last four weeks had more or less adjusted my training schedule accordingly. By the night before the event, I was filled with anxiety that I might not even be able to do that much -- after all, the most I'd walked in one day was 12 miles, and never two days in a row! I was torn between the strong desire to prove myself worthy of all the generous support I'd received and the knowledge that there is really no shame in whatever distance I walked. I said some reassuring words to myself, watched The Replacements on TV for cheesey inspiration, and slept comfortably until the alarm went off way, way too early.

We boarded the shuttle bus to Soldier Field sometime around 5:30 the next morning, standing in line with our bags and lots of strangers who were taking the same journey. Even at that point, people had their reasons for walking pinned to their backs -- names of loves ones lost to breast cancer or still battling, words of hope for the future, pictures of mothers and daughters (including an ultrasound image of a daughter still in the womb of a pregnant participant).

In line for the bus, we were behind a group of girlfriends who have obviously made this event an annual tradition together, who were chatting happily and each wearing some iteration of this quote: "I walk for my daughter(s), so the only pink ribbons they wear will be in their hair." As the weekend wore on, we witnessed so many poignant expressions like this one -- along with so many displays of sisterly, family and friendly bonding -- that I often found myself close to tears and warmly comforted at the same time.

When we arrived at Soldier Field a half hour later, it was to a sea of frenetic pink activity. Checking in, getting coffee and breakfast, taking pictures, stretching, dancing -- the activities were varied and seemingly endless, but all toward a common purpose. We made our way to the stage area for opening ceremonies and began noticing the unique and interesting team names and slogans on the shirts of those around us -- spotting and pointing these out became our own little version of the "license plate game" over the next two days. [Some of my favorites: Operation: Save My-Raq, Hakunah Ma-Ta-Ta's, Girls Gone Miles (Uncensored), A Tale of Two Titties, Blister Sisters, The Ta Ta Sisterhood, and the simple but elegant "Boobylicious." I also particularly liked the "Pink Sluggers" team who had baseball-style shirts on with their bra sizes as their jersey numbers.]

At the Opening Ceremonies, we also started seeing survivors out in full force (more than 300 survivors walked with us) and their families  showing support. I was particularly touched by a woman with a cape and bandanna, accompanied by a man and two little boys with shirts that said, "My Mom (Wife) Fights Like a Girl." We saw fun costumes and accessories ranging from pink feather boas to bunny ears to foam princess crowns and capes. Buttons proclaimed "F--k cancer" (in elegant pink, naturally), "Blisters don't need chemo," and "Save Second Base." There were also buttons like "3-year alumni" for those who had walked before, and "5-year survivor." During the ceremony itself, we learned that we had raised $7.7 million as a group, and we heard inspirational stories from survivors and family members, along with this guy, who recently lost over half his body weight on Biggest Loser and walked in memory of his aunt.

And then, we were off. The first couple of miles were incredibly slow, as all 4,000 participants -- mostly women, but lots of men, too -- bunched together on sidewalks and running trails, and particularly when we crossed over narrow bridges. We soon learned that we were sharing these spaces with pedestrians and cyclists -- some of whom were gracious and supportive and others who were annoyed and even downright rude about sharing their bike routes with us. I guess you can't win everyone over! We followed a path northward along the edge of Lake Michigan, with me pausing neurotically at rest stops and benches to make adjustments to my shoes (inserts in or out?), my water bottle (hanging from my bag or carried?) and rain gear (on or off?).

We learned the ins and outs of rest stops: "Drink and pee, ladies! Drink and pee, no IV!" We were entertained by volunteers in outlandish costumes and a couple of large men dressed head to toe in pink, dancing on a cart being pulled by an ambulance through the streets.The rain threatened to appear all morning with some minor sprinkles and clouds, but by mile 6 -- just as we moved away from the lake and into the city -- it started pouring down.


Miles 6 through 9 were soaking wet, but the city also brought new inspiration as we left the contested beach path we'd shared with territorial cyclists and wandered down sidewalks that seemed to be expecting us. Shop windows were decked out in pink crepe paper, balloons and the occasional "Good Luck Avon Walkers!" sign taped to the glass. People waved and honked their horns as we passed, a stampede of pink beneath wet ponchos and jackets. There was a group (a gang?) of bikers -- Harley, not Schwinn -- who volunteered to help us through the busy intersections by directing traffic, blaring upbeat music and shouting words of encouragement about how far it was to the next rest stop.

As we came to more residential neighborhoods, there were organized cheering stations between stops where supporters shouted encouragement, slapped our hands, handed out candy, and thanked us for walking. Restaurants gave us free lemonade and handed out plastic to-go bags to help people protect things from the rain. A few houses even had supportive signs hanging from balconies and kids came out into the small city yards to cheer, wave, and even play drums for us using pots and pans. Even with wet hair and tired feet, it was impossible to feel anything but warm and happy. We had lunch at around Mile 10, and the weather cleared from then on, so that by the time we hit the half-marathon point, it was warm and sunny.

We'd been "behind" the prescribed schedule for walking farther than the half marathon all day (the organizers had a time-table for leaving each rest stop if you planned to walk more than 13.1 miles, and Dara and I had consistently been behind it all morning because of the large, slow-moving crowds and our positioning toward the back of the walk). By the time we got to the half-marathon finish line, we were only five or ten minutes behind the marathon schedule, so we had to make a decision: sit in the grass with our shoes off and enjoy our 13-mile achievement before heading back to the "wellness village" where we'd camp for the night, or move on with essentially no time to rest and see how far our bodies would take us.

Even though we were already a mile past what either of us had done in training, we both felt pretty good, especially since (unlike many of our compatriots) we were blister- and limp-free at that point. We stood up, filled our bottles with a water/Gatorade mix, stretched our achy muscles, and went on.

The next three miles went by more and more slowly, as we pushed ourselves beyond anything we'd done before and simply kept asking our feet to comply with the wishes of our hearts (at least that's how it felt to me). At mile 15.5, we faced a small hill that felt more like a mountain, and stopping for traffic lights felt more painful than walking. By the time we got to the rest stop at Mile 16, I sensed we were done. Dara, who sometimes has a better relationship with reality than I, recognized it first, and she sat happily in the grass to wait for one of the sweep vans while I toyed with the idea of trying to make it alone to Mile 18. I put my shoes back on after airing out my pained feet, and stood up "to see how I feel." She was nice enough not to laugh at me as I took a couple of wobbly steps before acknowledging defeat. Looking back on it, I think I might've been able to make it two more miles if I'd been willing to (a) walk less on Day 2 or (b) come home on crutches. Neither is really an appealing option, especially with an active almost-one-year-old to chase around, so I'm glad my friend was the voice of reason for us both.

We took the bus for the next 10 miles of the route with companions who shared our mixed feelings of pride, satisfaction, and maybe just a bit of disappointment they hadn't made it the whole marathon distance. We passed the walkers still on the route, viewing them with some mixture of sympathy and envy. Some were slowing down like us, nearing their own time on the sweeper van, while others walked as though they were still on Mile 2. Particularly amazing to me was that some of these latter women were 30 years or so older than I, and I noticed that several of them wore indications that they are breast cancer survivors. It was awe-inspiring.

Just before Mile 26, the bus let us off at Warren Park, where we walked the final .2 miles to the Day One finish line and the Wellness Village. We hobbled across the finish line amidst more cheers and worked our way to the gear truck to gather our luggage and supervise the boy scouts who were still putting up tents (including ours). We had a refreshing, surprisingly passable dinner under the enormous dining hall tent and went to a smaller tent for a yoga class that was challenging but made our tired muscles feel soooooo much better. Avon provided mobile showers (my first shower on a tractor-trailer, as far as I can remember), and there were doctors, nurses, chiropractors, physical therapists and massage therapists all tending to the walking wounded.

Exhausted, we skipped the "Fireside Follies" that promised entertainment in the main tent and retreated to our own tiny space before dark to read and journal. As the late walkers filed in from the route, we heard stories of those who had pushed themselves beyond their limits and ended up vomiting, disoriented or passing out entirely. Friends, parents and in some cases, ambulances carted away those whose spirit and determination had outlasted their physical abilities. Coming back from brushing my teeth I saw a woman awake and sitting up but barely able to respond to the attending paramedic's questions. For me, this really affirmed our decision to stop when we knew it was time to stop; but it also made me realize how passionate and committed many people are to this cause, this fight, and I felt re-inspired for the final half-marathon the next day.

But first, we had to survive the weather. Overnight, in our tiny little tents, we experienced what I later learned was a severe weather system that killed several people in other parts of the Midwest. I heard rumblings from the staff the night before about "evacuation plans" but no one ever pulled the trigger on that. In the middle of the night, as the winds whipped our tent around violently, the anxious part of me hoped nervously that the non-evacuation was because we were really pretty safe (after all, the flimsy tent always makes things seem worse, right?), and not because the storm had come up so fast that no one knew how bad it was until it was already right on us. I'm pretty sure it was the former. In any case, everyone in the event survived the night and only a few people had to move to a more sheltered area after their tents blew over. Seriously, the tents blew over. With people and gear in them. Sheesh.

For our part, Dara and I only experienced the whipping winds, a small puddle in the tent by the door, and the hardship of being placed in a tent right next to those people who never go camping and thus don't realize that the tent walls aren't like real walls, and just because you can't see through them doesn't mean you can't hear through them perfectly. So we endured some way-too-loud conversations and phone beeping at both 10:30 p.m. and 4:30 a.m. from them.... but if I'm honest, I probably would've been awake at both times anyway!

So, a little grumbling and muttering and rubbing of sore backs, and we were packed onto the gear trucks and sorted out for breakfast. The atmosphere was still lively as everyone prepared, refreshed, for Day Two. I heard later on that there were 2800 of us starting that morning, but in the close quarters of the Wellness Village and with all the lively chatter, you never would've guessed our numbers had shrunk by 1200.

The route re-opened to walkers at 7:30, and we were off into one of the most perfect days imaginable. The sun shone merrily and the morning was cool and dry -- not even a hint of the storms from the night before. We walked through quiet neighborhoods all the way east toward Lake Michigan, where we turned south through Loyola's Chicago campus, which is astonishingly pretty and beach-like, especially on a quiet Sunday morning. I thought I would be sore from Saturday's exertions, but I felt really fine and actually had a bit of a bounce in my step for the first three or four miles.

We couldn't have asked for a more beautiful day as we weaved our way through the parks along the lake, taking in the sights and doing a much better job avoiding run-ins with cyclists and joggers than we had the day before. It seemed everyone was refreshed with the knowledge that the end was in sight. Again, we were greeted along the route by our friends the bikers, and by little cheering sections of cancer survivors, families, and health care professionals. Just when the day was getting warmer and my legs beginning to get tired, we passed a man standing next to a healthy-looking woman in her 40's; and he held a colorful homemade sign that read, "My wife is a 6-year survivor. Thank you for walking." It brought tears to my eyes then, and it still does now.

The miles wore on as they had the day before, with the same regular rest stops and congeniality. As we got close to Mile 10 and our scheduled lunch, the conversations around us began to turn to planning for after the event - coordinating rides, dinner plans, thinking about soft warm beds for napping. At lunch, with only a 5K left to walk, the park where we stopped looked, in Dara's astute observation, like a war camp. The grass was littered with people bandaging their feet, icing down sore muscles, wrapping up knees and ankles. People seemed to eat more hurriedly than at previous meals and very few were taking pictures with friends and teammates.

The remaining 3.1 miles took us across the Chicago River and back into the heart of the city. We were so spread out along the city sidewalks that instead of a formidable sea of pink, we sometimes even blended in with the crowds of tourists and residents out enjoying the street festivals of a warm Sunday. I was so grateful that the end was coming (and frankly not sure how much longer I could've walked if it wasn't), but it was also a little sad that our united band of warriors sharing a common experience would soon become separate individuals once again, melting back into our separate lives.

The final 1.2 miles seemed to take an eternity. From the last rest stop at 11.9 miles to the finish line at Soldier Field, each step seemed like its own little endurance test. I found myself envisioning falling down in the grass outside the stadium and simply sleeping there until I took a cab to the airport. Conversation slowed as everyone seemed to focus on the single goal of making it to the finish.

But what a finish! Back at Soldier Field, the crowds had gathered, and husbands, friends, moms, dads, and many others waited for us, cheering wildly from the 13 mile marker all the way to the finish line. It felt amazing to be crossing the finish line, and vicariously wonderful to watch relieved and proud walkers fall into the waiting (and even more proud) arms of their loved ones. My intense happiness at that moment was rivaled only by my intense yearning to be celebrating with my own family and wishing that MDH and our son had flown in from Atlanta, too.

Dara and I both did collapse on the grass, after finding someone to take our picture at the finish line and getting sufficiently out of the way of the other walkers. And we might have stayed there a while, except that the rain returned just at that moment to spur us onward to collect our gear. Now thanks to my poor planning when I booked my flight, we were unable to stay for closing ceremonies, which would've been cool in many ways [Suze Ormond was a speaker, and the foundation presented checks from our donations to the beneficiary organizations]. But as it was, I loaded my large backpack onto my back and we set out for the El to take us back to the airport. We ended up walking another mile or so to the El station, so whenever anyone asks how far I got in the walk, I feel very comfortable rounding up to 30 from our official distance of 29.3!

In a way, I think having some quiet time on the train and at the airport to reflect on the weekend was as valuable to me as the wrap-up of Closing Ceremonies would've been anyway. It was an amazing weekend, and I think I have learned (and will continue to learn) so much about myself from it. I'd like to say something profound in summation, but the truth is I don't think anything I can say will beat the simplest words of love, tenacity and gratitude that we saw all weekend on homemade posters and screen-printed t-shirts. And since most people reading this have been affected by breast cancer in one way or another, I know that you don't need me to say anything more, either.

Thank you SO much to everyone who supported me in this undertaking - financially and emotionally. I am so appreciative of the donations, the well-wishes on Facebook, the text messages during the weekend, and all the positive energy. We are better together, in this fight as in all things!

Blisters and the Battle Within

I'm nearly halfway through my training now, completing a 12-mile endurance walk this past Sunday. I'm learning a lot about myself through this process, including what my body is capable of enduring and how surprisingly quickly I can bounce back from what feels like overwhelming tiredness or soreness.

I have noticed that during each week's long walk, the distance that felt impossible the previous week seems way easier; and it's during the last two miles of any distance that my feet really hurt, my body aches, and I wonder how I'll make it to the finish line. And yet, the following week I'm able to cover that same distance, plus two more miles. The human body is a fascinating machine.

This post, however, is largely about what I'm learning about my brain. One of the reasons I undertook this quest -- other than the obvious ones about fighting breast cancer, and the fact that any excuse to spend time with my friend Dara is a good one -- was that I wanted to give myself the opportunity to add some self-discipline into my routine. Please don't misunderstand, my routine can be pretty grueling and intense on its own, so I am certainly not a lady of leisure to begin with.

That said, I've always felt that personal discipline was one of my weak points, whether it's sticking to a diet, keeping a clean house, or finishing a novel. I'm a high achiever when there are external forces tugging at me, like grad school course requirements, a friend showing up at my door at 5 a.m. with a yoga mat and a smile, or good old fear of public humiliation. It's when I have to tap into internal motivation that I seem to struggle. So part of me was hoping, as I stared down the barrel of Avon's prescribed training schedule, that this process could be a learning experience through which I acquire some personal willpower.

So, I'm following the schedule, more or less, with my primary commitment to myself that I will complete each week's long endurance walk on Sunday, and try to walk as much as I can for the rest of the week. The place where I walk is more or less a 3 mile loop, with some flexibility of distance depending on the route I take. I just repeat the loop however many times I need to complete my goal for the week.

The beginning and the end of each loop brings me close to my car, and therefore, temptation.

So this is where it gets interesting. Or boring, actually. For the first few weeks, I had the novelty of my task and all the initial excitement to keep me chugging along, despite the pain. There's also the fascinating vantage of watching the trail and its inhabitants evolve and change with each passing lap, which could be a blog all its own. This past week, however, the novelty and my interest in everything around me began to wear thin, and I'll admit that putting one foot in front of the other for 3.5 hours began losing its appeal.

Add to that some pretty vicious chaffing and painful blisters, and of course it crossed my mind -- as I rounded on 5.5 miles -- that the car was within easy reach, and I could be home and in a hot shower in a matter of 30 minutes. What's interesting to me is not that I had this moment of weakness (totally understandable, that); but how quickly my rationalizing mind swooped in to support the idea of giving up.

It just happened so fast. I thought, "wow, I don't want to be out here today," and in a matter of seconds, my head was filled with reasons it would be okay to quit. You're in pain, you should go take care of yourself. Who would you be hurting if you go home? No one would blame you. Most people wouldn't have walked 6 miles yet today, you're already ahead! You've done so much for this cause already, it's not the end of the world if you ditch one practice walk. And the eternal classic, the mantra of the procrastinator, there's always tomorrow.

Fortunately for me, I still had half a mile to talk myself out of quitting, and to re-invigorate my own resolve to plow ahead. Just to be sure I would hold true to my purpose, I even cut short a little bit of the loop to keep myself from going too near the parking lot. In the end, I decided to hold my Sunday walk sacred and renewed my commitment to stick with the plan (barring major injury, of course). I did manage to complete my 12 miles, or at least 11.6 or so. And, despite the fact that my blisters and chaffing are way more painful than if I'd stopped, the damage I avoided doing to my pride and sense of commitment far outweigh the temporary physical pain.

It does leave me thinking about that evil little rationalizing voice in my head. The one that can undermine my sense of purpose and allow me to talk myself out of something I've committed to. It's true that sometimes this voice helps me take care of myself when I've over-committed, and helps me sort out my own needs from the needs of others. But there are times when I've set a goal for a reason, for myself, and that cunning little voice talks me out of doing what is healthy or right anyway.

It's no small task, confronting your most automatic and familiar thought processes, and challenging yourself to think differently. I get the sense this is going to take some time.... I guess that's one more good reason to take those Sunday walks.

The Breast Blog of the Year - Part Two

You know you want to. You do. You're going to do it.

You're going to click this link and make a donation to the Avon Foundation for Breast Cancer in support of my 39.3-mile walk in Chicago this summer. The fact that you're going to give isn't in dispute. What might be up for discussion is how much.

It's so hard to know what amount is appropriate to give for something like this; and having been in that dark and indecisive place myself, I decided to create some suggestions for you. Aren't I helpful? I know, I am!

Here are some options:

• Contribute $12 in honor of Madonna -- Queen of the Cone Bra. That's $1 for each Number One hit.
  
• Give $1 each for all the healthy, wonderful women you're grateful to have in your life. In fact, since this is all about good things that come in pairs, better make that $2 each.
• You could go with the classic $1 per mile. An oldie but a goodie. That's $26.20 for the marathon on Saturday, $13.10 for the half-marathon Sunday, or $39.30 for the whole sha-bang.
  
• In the Jewish tradition, the number 18 symbolizes life - so give life by giving $18. If you choose this method, you should toast a glass of your favorite beverage and say "L'Chaim" as you click the donation button. Or, give $36 and toast twice. At $54, make sure you have a designated driver!
• How about $1 for each year we've known each other? I'm quite blessed to say this could get expensive for some people!
• Give a penny for each number in the year your all-time favorite movie was released. So Casablanca would be $19.42; Pulp Fiction $19.94; The Godfather $19.72; LOTR Return of the King $20.03..... (Personally, I wouldn't put Tombstone on this list, but who am I to judge? And I'll be happy to take the $19.93 anyway).
  
• Count the number of women in your Facebook friends list and give 10 cents for each of them. If you've ever wondered why there's no "cents" key on the modern keyboard, add an extra dollar.

Whatever you decide to donate, or even if you just decide to contribute encouragement, please know that I deeply appreciate your support -- both of my personal undertaking and the cause of breast cancer awareness & treatment. As always, thanks for reading!!

The Breast Blog of the Year - Part One

Boobies. Ta-tas. The Girls. Cleveland. The Good China....

Our affectionate nicknames for them are endless and often hilarious. And our breasts serve many purposes in our lives: from that awkward moment when they signal the onset of puberty and we try on our first training bra, to trying desperately to direct the attention of men in our lives up to our eyes (ahem), to breastfeeding and nurturing our children, and finally to that stage of life where our constant companions are less like perky balloons and more like fried eggs hanging on nails. It seems that no other part of our anatomy is such an obvious barometer for where we are in life, and to some extent, how we perceive ourselves and even our sexual identity.

There's probably an entire essay that could be written (maybe even a book) about breasts, social norms, and the psychosocial development of women. You'll be relieved to hear that I am not planning to write said essay. Or, at least -- this isn't it.

But I have noticed in recent years that breasts serve another purpose for modern women -- they are a rallying point around which we have organized ourselves for battle: for the fight against breast cancer. As a caveat, let me say that I'm aware both that (a) men also get breast cancer (though in far, far smaller numbers); and (b) that many more women actually die of lung cancer than breast cancer -- making it just as worthy of our collective attention.

That said, it's amazing what the fight against breast cancer has done for our community and our collective awareness of women's health issues. You can't swing a cat in October without hitting a store display of pink items designed specially to raise money and awareness [we'll talk later about why you're swinging a cat in a store]. Sometimes just the commercials of women running, walking and bonding in search of a cure leave me teary-eyed.

It has also brought men and women together in a way that I find really touching: seeing professional athletes in every major sport wearing pink in honor of the women in their lives, for example, is a gesture I find amazing and beautiful even outside of the good it does for the cause of breast cancer awareness.

The breast cancer bit matters, too, of course. I think pretty much everyone knows someone who has been impacted by this scary and (too often) deadly disease. For me personally, I've lost two wonderful former colleagues to breast cancer in the past two years -- one of whom died very suddenly just last week. I've also had friends who lost mothers and sisters to breast cancer far, far too young.

All this exposition is to say that, this summer, I've decided to get off the sidelines and be a part of the solution. My dear friend Dara and I are lacing up our walking shoes (and of course, the requisite sports bra) to walk 39.3 miles in 2 days this June in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in Chicago.

It's going to be quite an undertaking for me. I've been struggling to get back into shape since my little man came along, and the thought of walking a marathon one day and a half-marathon the next.... well, it's pretty darn daunting. The training schedule itself looks pretty grueling, particularly when you consider that I'll be pushing 40+ lbs of stroller and baby on all the endurance walks.

And of course, there's the fundraising requirement, which is substantial. but at least with that part, I know you'll be able to help me. More on that in Part Two....

Lesson #68 and 'Mother of the Year' Nominee: Don't Breastfeed in a Sports Bra

Any of my female readers who are like me and, well... (ahem) generously endowed, already know that sports bras can be tricky business. I've always thought it was ironic that those of us who need support the most seem to be furthest from the minds and intentions of sports bra designers.

First of all, it's all but impossible to find a plus-size sports bra that will stand up to more impact than a gentle stroll [the rationale being, I assume, that we're pretty much just walking from the car to the Krispy Kreme counter anyway]. My working theory is that whoever is advising clothing manufacturers about the fitness habits of larger women is the same person who thinks we all want to wear animal prints and fuchsia fringe. Size 10? Soft navy in a subdued, classy fabric. Size 16? How about LEOPARD PRINT WITH SEQUINS?!?

And once you do find a sports bra that will actually keep "the girls" restrained, it's so hard to put on that it's a workout in itself. In college - and I am not even kidding with this - I actually pulled a muscle in my shoulder trying to get out of a sports bra! And I didn't even mind the painful muscle strain, because in the moments before it, I'd been mildly concerned that we were going to have a "Pooh stuck in Rabbit's door" kind of situation on our hands. Now that would've been an embarrassing call to the paramedics.

Up until now, my sports bra injuries have been primarily self-inflicted. Yesterday, however, the sports bra claimed a new victim: my six-month old son. I had to feed him immediately after Jazzercise class; so he was lying across my lap after nursing. I reached up to try to wrangle the sports bra/torture instrument back into place, my hand slipped and.... WHAP! I smacked my unsuspecting baby right in the face with my knuckles.

Now, as you can imagine, this was more than a little surprising to him, and absolutely horrifying to me. A smack in the face is such a painful, disrespectful thing to do to another person; and even though this particular smack in the face was completely accidental, it's hard to explain that to a six-month old infant whose relaxing lunch just had a terrible ending.

We both cried it out, and of course he's fine now. But I actually rescheduled getting his picture taken yesterday afternoon because of the red spot above his eye -- no one else would've noticed it, probably, but for me it would've been a permanent reminder of that unhappy moment.

So, I will be feeding MLM post-post-workout-shower from now on; and if anyone knows someone in the design arena of women's athletic wear, tell them I'd like to set up a meeting!