Sweaty, Sore, Sizeable.

It’s been a few weeks since I last went to the gym. Not years. Weeks. Months? Idk, but when I laced up my shoes and caught sight of myself in the mirror, it felt like returning after a long absence—like showing up to a house you used to live in and finding it full of different furniture.

Specifically, bigger furniture. Pillows?

I’ve gained weight, yes—but it’s like 90% of it went straight to my breasts as y'all know. My sports bra is tighter, the straps cutting in deeper, and when I pull my gym shirt down, it no longer covers the full equation. There’s a soft ledge now. A very visible curve that turns any top into a crop top if I lift my arms.

I’ve started timing my workouts around when the apartment gym is empty. I cannot deal with the people trying, but failing, to not stare. Early afternoon is safest—everyone else is at work or pretending to be. I need the space, not just physically but emotionally. I can’t handle trying to jog while some stranger tries to casually-not-casually figure out what’s happening under my hoodie.

The treadmill feels different now. I used to jog lightly, a sort of “I’m not trying to be impressive, I’m just vibing” pace. But now, every bounce is amplified. Each footfall is met with an bosomy aftershock—soft, dense, heavy. Audible. I doubled up on bras and still felt and heard the motion. It’s not just bounce. It’s drag. A slow, weighted pull forward with every step, like someone tied pudding filled water balloons to my collarbone and said, “Good luck.”

And the sweat. Oh my God, the sweat.

The girls start sweating in their own little ecosystem. A swampy, humid zone of underboob condensation that no sportswear was ever truly built for. I’ve started bringing a hand towel. Not for my face. For them. Little dabs between sets like I’m politely blotting some absurdly plush royalty.

I can feel them shifting, even during simple movements. Squats are a negotiation. Jumping jacks are a joke. Mountain climbers? Don’t even bring it up unless you want to see a woman physically clap her own chin with a boob mid-exercise.

And even in my sports bras, compression layer, and sweatshirt (all necessary to not put on a show) the tiddy overflow is so obviously noticeable.

It's a really annoying reminder, and public display that they haven't stopped growing.

But anyways.... I went.

I showed up. They showed up. We sweated. We did half of what we used to and left feeling like a science project, some kind of experiment in exile: sweaty, sore, but stubbornly victorious. Because getting back into it isn’t about being perfect.

It’s about lacing up and stepping onto the treadmill, even when you know you’ll need two bras and a towel just to survive it.

-Plushy 🍈🍈😅