I didn’t – instead, I decided to go to the high school track and run a mile before going home. As I walked to the track, I noticed a woman sitting on the bench. I smiled at her, and then began to jog.
About 4 strides in, to my horror, I realized that I didn’t change into my sports bra, and it was a very, very bad thing. The girls were jumping around all over the place, no matter how smooth I tried to keep my stride, and there was just no hiding their giddy freedom.
Not that the lady would have particularly noticed my jiggling jugs, but I didn’t want to run 20 paces and then turn around and walk to my car, like some sort of lunatic. Like, who comes out, runs half a lap, and goes home? Why bother? Cursing her presence (why did I care, though? I do not know), I jogged on.
“I can make it one lap around,” I thought. “That will only look moderately insane.”
The boinging got worse, because my rack’s own momentum increased the bounce factor.
I couldn’t do it. My bouncing boobies quickly evolved from annoying discomfort to true pain, accompanied by visions dancing in my head of me with my knockers sagging to my knees, all because of one unsupported run.
So I walked the rest of the lap, and then walked off the track and straight to my car.
I still felt like an ass, but my breasts clearly did not care what that woman must have thought.
I can’t take ‘em anywhere.
And yet, I take them everywhere.