I hold two white pull-on sports bras in my hands. I hadn't thought I had two exactly the same. I lay them side by side on the bed, trying to find the well-washed sizing labels. AHA! Maybe if I put one on top of the other!
Yes! The one on top is definitely smaller. I lift it up and can see a very faint "S" on the inside back.
"This is totally Rissa's. I have just averted disaster!"
"Glad to hear," says David.
"If I had tried to stuff the girls in there? Pandemonium." I give a self-congratulatory fist bump to the air.
I start inserting my person into the correct brassiere.
"Oh for the love of..."
"You okay over there?"
One full arm is through the sports bra. I am struggling with the other arm. My elbow is caught. Then it's not. The bra is now tight around my collar bone - a man-made fabric boa constrictor. I wrestle with the brassiere's band.
"SWEET MERCIFUL MOSES!"
"I just stabbed myself with my fingernail."
"How?" (David has yet to look at me.)
"Because," I pant, "this brassiere is made to keep breasts down, so it's super..." SNAP! "Oh COME ON!"
"You need some help there?"
"No, I'm fine." I continue my struggle. I pause. Struggle again. Stop. "Yes please."
"We could make money from this on pay-per-view."
He notices my bleeding finger. "Jeeze. You weren't kidding."
"I'm telling you. This is a full-contact sport. Just imagine if two women were doing this."
"I say again - we need our own pay-per-view channel."