I promise I will stop boring you with my stories about running very soon. At some point running will become humdrum again instead of a long run of graceless adventures. Right? Riiiiight. Last night’s adventure? I broke my boob.
I am so not kidding.
I’ve been weaning my back off of chiropractic care. It’s been going great! My back is feeling stronger and better – but that doesn’t mean I don’t still get into trouble. My routine has been to bring my gym clothes to work with me so I can change right before I walk out the door. I’m one of the lucky few who has an office, with a door that locks and everything(!), so I usually just change into my superhero (ha! I typed superho) right there in my office. Now, here’s where I go asking for trouble: because I don’t quite trust the one-way mirrored effect of the office windows, I rarely change into my sports bra. I just don’t trust that I won’t flash have the busy intersection while I’m changing. I could go change in the ladies’ room, but then I’d have to parade myself – in gym clothes – past half the office. And I’m not that confident. So. Usually no sports bra. Most of the time, that’s okay. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world to be running on the treadmill or using the elliptical without all of the support I need, but usually I manage.
Last night was not “usually.”
Almost as soon as I started running I could feel the chafing going on. Then the underwire shifted and I started stabbing myself. A few quick adjustments were made, and I was dealing. But apparently my right boob decided it wasn’t having any of that because at one point it tried to make a break for it. Thankfully, I was on the machine squished in the corner because the chiro’s waspacked last night. So I finished my run (2 miles! woot!), joked around with the motley crew of patients, did my stretching and had my massage. All was good.
At least, all was good until I got home and changed to take a shower. I had a giant red mark on the underside of my right boob. (Which I may or may not have started calling Bad Boob. Good Boob and Bad Boob – why not?) The mark looked horrible, but it didn’t seem to be cut or anything. Until I got in the shower and was struck down by searing pain when the water and shampoo hit it. I was so happy there weren’t any childrens home to hear the pretty, pretty cusswords that came flying outta my mouth just then.
And that, ladies, is how I ended up with a broken boob. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna take flashing the intersection because you really can’t take me anywhere. Not even to the boring ol’ chiropractor’s office.