Who Are You And What Have You Done With Kgirl?

I have been thinking about doing some seriously masochistic shit lately. Seriously. I don’t know if my life is just feeling super-ass boring, or if it’s the weather or what, but fuck, I’m thinking of doing things that I probably should not do.

Like going bra shopping. I need a new bra like I need more coffee – that is, a lot, and it is as much for the benefit of those around me as it is for my own damn good.

Currently, I am wearing a 4-year old stretched out, too small, ugly, natty nursing bra that has faded to a lovely shade of swine, from my first round of breastfeeding, and it is doing not a thing for me, except making my sunburnt shoulders itch. As for my figure, it is riding up and cutting my tits in half, which certainly makes for a lovely silhouette.

So, I should just go get a new bra, right? Yes, but then I have to give up the fantasy that I am still a perky, nubile young thing in a respectable 34B, and accept the fact that some old Russian frau will unceremoniously stuff my lovelies into a contraption that looks more suited to carting around weapons of mass destruction than bosoms, and which forces me to accept that my actual measurements are more stubby than tall-boy. I’m just not ready to give up the fantasy (or the money), even though the flap on my left cup just popped open and hit me in the chin.

The other masochistic nonsense I’ve been considering is taking up jogging. Seriously, who the fuck runs for fun? I run if a) I’m being chased by zombies or b) my child is about to knock over my beer. Otherwise, I prefer not to break a sweat. (This might have something to do with the cause of my fat boobs; see above.) But the ugly truth is that I have fat boobs and a muffin top am getting older, and I don’t’ drink enough milk. So I should really try getting exercise that works my body beyond reaching for the big bowl to put my chips in or bending down to pick dirty laundry off the floor.

Oh, who am I kidding? The laundry often sits there for weeks.

Anyway, I’ve heard that joggers get this thing called leg cramps runner’s high, and you know, I can’t afford recreational drugs anymore, so runner’s high it is.

I’ve been advised that the best way to start running (only losers call it jogging), is to walk for five minutes, than run for one. I think I can handle that! How long am I allowed to do that? Six months? Sounds good. It’s like when I used to work as a cashier at Dominion – I kept my, ‘I’m new, please be patient!’ badge on my god-awful blood-coloured polyester straightjacket of a uniform for 2 years. I prefer that one’s expectations of me remain base for as long as possible.

So yeah, running. I can do it for a few minutes a day, I guess. But I’m certainly not going to increase the amount of sweat equity I put in until I get a new bra.

Which will be anytime now, I promise.



  1. I keep thinking I'll take up jogging too. But the jogging bra issue is a big, big problem, since nature saw fit to endow me with Dolly Parton sized endowments. And you never see DOLLY jogging, do you?

  2. omg How have I missed all these posts?!!?
    oK am so fat and if you are going to do it and Kittenpie is doing it. I guess it is time for me too.

    I've been biking and walking but since I can't keep my gob shut its not helping.

  3. Can you pretend zombies are chasing you? That might help with the running.

  4. I have been debating going to Sophia's on the Danforth lately for some bra duty. I'm with you on the nursing bars. Wearing one right now AND I DON'T BREASTFEED ANYMORE.

  5. OK, I am the weirdo who runs for fun. Maybe, technically, it's more stress relief and anger management, but we can kind lump that under "if I wasn't so stressed and angry, I would have a lot more FUN", yes?

    [And, um, I may have no boobs left of which to speak, may I suggest Avec Plaisir in Yorkville. Normally, I would never go to such a fancy place, but they are AWESOME. Even Mr Earth likes shopping for me there. They're that good.]

  6. You have me totally cracking up over here.

    I am wearing a one-year-old nursing bra, but 5-year-old maternity panties. And I'm not pregnant. I know. It's just as hot as it sounds. Rawr.

  7. I can't say a thing about running, except that I'm quite sure it sucks, but I can say that there are some lovely bras out there now for *ahem* bigger boobies. Thank goodness.

  8. I have started getting up at ten to six every weekday morning to power walking with my dog and my neighbour and her dog. For the first week, I felt like I was going to have a heart attack mere minutes - nay, seconds - after I left the threshold of my house. The following week I found it harder to get up so goddamn early as opposed to actually walking, and by the third week I was actually getting used to it.

    I don't know how many weeks it's been - five, maybe - that I've been doing this. But since I've started I've slept better, I've felt better, and I've lost five pounds.

    And lemmie tell ya...I fucking sweat like a PIG when I walk. I'm talking SWEAT, baby. I'm right slippery when I get home.

  9. One of our lovely electrical storms seems to have murdered my treadmill. I need to have to have it fixed pronto because I don't run on streets. My work out clothes are never meant to be seen in public. My bras on the other hand are! Calvin Klein is having a sale.

  10. First of all you are still young and nnubile and only wish you had fat boobs! Second of all, I know how you feel. I am slowly accepting the fact that I will probably never be as buff as I was before Ruby. However, last night I was shocked back to reality. All the confidence I had gained by losing almost 50 of the 60 pounds I gained during my pregancy was lost when an insensitive party goer asked if I was expecting number two?
    Thanks a lot lady. WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.


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