This morning, not fifteen minutes hence, I found myself entirely unable to undress myself. To wit: I was stuck inside my shirt. In order to contain my glorious and magnificent love mounds (and thereby prevent injury to myself and others), I wear a sports brassiere that is unholy tight and a shirt which is, quite clearly, Far Too Small.
Said articles of clothing subsequently become sweat-soaked and therefore whence the brand name “Second Skin”. Aptly named, forsooth and indeed. It takes No Small Effort to remove the aforementioned articles of clothing, however the ordeal is not usually an impossible task.
Enter today’s resistance training, in which we focus on upper body, core, and arms.
And so it came to pass that I was hopping around in the tiled change room, sweaty, smelly, and utterly trapped inside my second, as it were, skin. The shirt drawn up above my head, the bra band under my armpits but over my bust. I believe I was moaning. Or possibly whining. More probably whining. Pitifully. Pathetically.
Eventually, I was able to disentangle myself by peeling the godforsaken thing off down over my prodigious hips (which, yes, are smaller than my shoulders and bust).
This is the sexy part of fitness. I SWEAR TO GOD.