A truly demented idea dreamed up by the band council during my Senior year of high school. The last week of band camp was traditionally "Spirit Week" (IOW, "raise the sagging spirits" week): every day had a silly theme, like "Tie-dye Day" or "70's Day" and participants won the adoration of their peers and possibly a small prize. Every year, the new band council would try to come up with something new, something a little sillier than the year before.

Memories surrounding the actual inception and development of the idea are hazy at best; I seem to remember the girls going for it, already relishing the sadistic pleasure of watching all the guys twitch and tug at the bands of Lycra pulled around their chests. At any rate, the all-student board approved the day (thank goodness we didn't need our director's approval). So Friday, the last day of band camp, became Senior Sports Bra Day. Every senior had to show up wearing a sports bra, and wear it throughout the entire 10 hour day.

I was one of the males (brave|dumb) enough to attempt the stunt. So on Thursday night, eight male friends, about a half-dozen female "advisors," and I met at one of the young lady's house. Measuring tapes and sizing guides in hand, the females fitted the nine males for bras. After several minutes of (needless to say, exclusively female) deliberation about the best place to purchase this odd item of clothing, we headed off to a local sporting-goods store and marched straight to the women's clothing department.

To make a long story short, I wear a 46A. Such a size does not exist. Nor does 38AA, 40B, 43.212309182A, or any of the other sizes the males needed, with the exception of one rather skinny fellow who managed to fit quite well into a 34A. So we fudged on the cup size, instead of the chest size, in which there is a little less leeway. Forty-five minutes later, I left the store with a nice, purple-grey 46C sports bra. I crossed my fingers behind my back when one girl made me promise to stuff it.

The next morning, true to my word, I showed up wearing the sports bra (under a t-shirt of course, just in case everyone else chickened out). To my relief, I was not the sole participant: the 9 males and about 17 females were all similarly attired. So I changed to a tank top and showed off my new, uh, support mechanism. Or rather, lack of support. Since I had declined to stuff it, the front was a bit baggy, and the straps, though far wider than a standard bra, still dug into my skin. Fortunately, I wasn't the only male who needed to readjust his undercarriage every 10 minutes or so. Unfortunately, though I had applied a heavy layer of SPF 50 to my entire chest, that wasn't enough protection from the late-August sun. I had a faintly visible bra tan line for the rest of the season, and a little more respect for the female species for the rest of my life.

I still have the purple-grey, 46C sports bra buried in my underwear drawer, never to be worn again. I'll custom order the 46A next time.

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