Jog bras are the undisputed Fort Knox for ta-tas worldwide. Women, particularly those athletic types, know the value of such impenetrable security. And that’s why I completely melted down when my boobs broke free from my periwinkle, swoosh-emblazoned, XL exercise brazier in the Great Fort Knox Boob Breach of 2020.
I am not aerodynamically built, but I exercise. It’s no secret that I run angry and if you yell encouragement in your XS running shorts, I will cut you. Legit. That and people indiscriminately whistling trigger me (#stopmusicalassault). I love running alone to think about important things like how meditate and medicate are practically the same word, showing that the universe supports party drugs.
While not necessarily gazelle-like (i.e., I once broke both ankles within three months), I am a veteran runner. My tots can get rowdy, especially amid cardio. When I run longer than five miles, I double up to keep the girls down. My lady lumps are one rebel yell away from gravity-defying moves, guaranteed to throw out my back or pummel pedestrians.
The breached boulder holder pulled the girls to heights not visited since my 20s. Further, this bra showed no signs of weakness, structural defects or vulnerabilities. The girls decided to declare themselves a free, autonomous region of Boobistan, which still shocks me. Even more mystifying, the breach occurred absent any actual physical exercise.
I commenced the acrobatics of removing my jog bra after a schwitzy afternoon of yard work. As I contorted to loosen Fort Knox’s grip, the girls broke away running in different directions. As they dashed to freedom, I heard a rip and suddenly found it hard to breath. The bottom half of the bra constricted my diaphragm like a giant hair elastic, while everything else moved in opposite directions like a maniacal toddler’s ponytail. The horror of suffocating by bra served as motivation to drag my oxygen-deprived body to the kitchen where I confronted new problems.
The Forensic Files voice filled my head, “Found lifeless on her kitchen floor, which needed a deep clean, it appeared she lost consciousness defending herself with a consortium of culinary cutting devices…braless…suggesting she knew her killer.”
I’m not a survivalist or premeditating murderer, meaning my dull, kitchen knives are more likely to bludgeon veggies than slice. Who honestly sharpens their knives or returns the all-purpose scissors to the same location? In one day, the all-purpose scissors cut wrapping paper, opened Amazon boxes and cut bubble gum from hair while freeing frozen pizzas for the hungry masses. As a result, it becomes impossible to locate those buggers. I free-boobed around my kitchen, gasping and panicking, looking for scissors.
Eventually, I found them, right where I left them…in the backyard. Nothing says classy like going topless and struggling for air in a yard overlooked by the neighboring apartments during pandemic lockdown. Once I scurried back inside the house, I figured the likelihood low for any apartment dwellers to observe my foray into European beach life.
Sadly, my antics drew the top two floors of residents, who were participating in a day-drinking, progressive party during the Fort Knx Breach. I know this, because eyewitnesses reported seeing the great escape, confessed they had never seen a wardrobe malfunction like that, and one creepy dude offered his yard work services for the future.
Since the breach, I restored security and put down the revolt of Boobistan, reinforcing perimeter but in a more “build a bigger wall” way. Consider yourselves collectively warned, sharpen your kitchen knives and note that a breast reduction might prove lifesaving.
— Cyn Epler
Cyn Epler is a true, bona fide Floridian; born and raised in Columbus, Ohio. When not focusing on how to light the flame of Jeffersonian democracy or completing other, governmental (read: bureaucratic) tasks, she enjoys writing humor, learning how to play ukulele for her future rock career, and beaching it with her beloved, fuzzy sidekick Fiona (#teamdog). Fiona and Ms. Epler are available for Bar/Bat Mitzahs, family reunions, and other events, which might result in a Jerry Springer-like mayhem fodder for stand-up comedy material.