The Frictionless Vacuum

                Five o’clock was happy hour – for anyone who wasn’t me.

                I dreaded it like no other time of the day.  Not even the hours afterward, when I was tossed into a heap of dirty linens, smelling strongly of body odor and drenched in sweat, could compare to five o’clock.

                That was when my hell began.  I always try and tuck myself into a far corner, hoping vainly that she’ll somehow miss me.  She never does, and inevitably her well manicured hand will close over me, drag me out into the unflattering light of a gym locker room, and put me on.

                Can you even begin to imagine what it’s like?  To be stuffed inside a reeking bag all day, crammed in next to the tennis shoes and spandex pants – which, in my opinion, have no business being there at all?  To stretched and pulled and forced down over breasts that are far too large to contain?  To ultimately be tucked beneath those massive conglomerations of body fat that bounce and bounce and bounce while the owner is running?  Can you even begin to comprehend how disgusting it is to be peeled off, sweating and thoroughly abused, and be discarded back into the same smelly bag, forgotten until the unwashed sweat clinging to your fibers begins to permeate the car?

                I doubt it.  No one who isn’t in my same predicament can possibly comprehend the horror and torture that comes with being a sports bra.  Being tossed into a bonfire by an enraged feminist would be so much more preferable to an hour at the gym every day.