Flawlessly Braless

Y'all. I will never, ever, ever again complain about having small boobs.*

*I mean, not for at least a month or so.

For years, I've felt like my teeny titties have been a disadvantage. No cleavage in cute tops. Stomach sticking out further than my boobs do. Wearing a sports bra and looking like an adolescent boy. And even though my mother reassured me throughout the years that they would never sag, here they are four children later ... small, floppy flaps of skin with nipples at the bottom. (But really, what should I have expected from a woman who told me the Tooth Fairy was real? Hmmph.)

Yesterday, though - for probably the first time in my life - I was so relieved at their size. Or lack thereof.

Here's the deal: I taught Zumba twice that day. And during my Zumba classes, I sweat like a Sumo wrestler on a treadmill in a sauna. I mean, I am drenched. 

So when I got home from my morning class, my bra was soaked. I own two bras, and one is strapless, so that leaves one bra I can do Zumba in. I didn't have time to wash and dry it before my next class in the afternoon, so I took it off to let it air-dry, changed into a white tank top and a thin overshirt, and went about my (braless) business.

I got so engrossed in my work here at home that when I checked the time, I realized I had to leave the house - like now. I grabbed my bottle of water, my phone, and my purse and made the fifteen-minute drive to the Y, where I teach. When I got there, I walked in and chatted my way back to the group fitness studio, talking to my boss, the front desk staff (and three people signing up for YMCA memberships), and the janitor before finally introducing myself to my new Zumba students. You see, yesterday's class was a special one, full of teenage girls from the Heartbeat Pregnancy Center and Maternity Home.

I stood in front of them, cheerfully telling them a little bit about myself and what to expect from the class. Then, as usual, I walked over to the stereo to cue up my music. But as I was doing so, something unusual happened: I felt ... a little drafty. And my hands drifted to my chest as I came to the horrifying, slow-motion realization that I had forgotten to put my freaking bra back on and I was now braless, in public, about to teach a fitness class to a group of teenagers.

OMG.

OMG.

What could I do? I didn't carry a spare bra in my purse. I couldn't just bum one off of someone. I couldn't say, "Hey guys, excuse my bralessness!" All I could do was pretend that everything was normal and pray that no one noticed any floppage or nippleage or sagginess as I did BRALESS ZUMBA IN A ROOMFUL OF STRANGERS OMG.

If you've been reading my blog for a while (or have been a student in my class), you likely know that I've had bra-related mishaps during Zumba before. But I've never straight-up forgotten to wear one. I was nervous as I got started, but I tried my best to give it my all - as I always do - lack of properly supportive undergarments be damned.

During the first couple of songs, I was relieved to note that there was little to no jiggle in my wiggle, owing to the fact that I have tiny boobs and that my tank top was sort of a spandex-y material which held them in almost like a sports bra. I started to relax ... for a minute. But then, with a sinking feeling, I realized that I was starting to sweat. And both my tank top and my (paper-thin) overshirt were white.

By some divine miracle, though, my tank top was thick enough to not become transparent as I soaked it with sweat (totally un-sponsored shoutout to the Worthington Seamless Tank from JCPenney - seriously, getcha one here, they're amazing and I love them). I glanced in the mirror a few times and could see a faint trace of pokey nipple, but I mean, that happens with sports bras too. And if that was the worst that happened when I did Zumba without a bra, I considered myself lucky.

I escaped public humiliation, but I suspect that wouldn't have been the case had my boobs been, say, a C-cup instead of an A. So I have to admit, I'm grateful for their size. They may be pitiful and sadly devoid of cleavage, but they saved me from becoming the laughing stock of a roomful of teenage girls.

... At least, not to my face.