I have an entire drawer in my giant dresser devoted to sports bras, despite the fact that I wear exactly two of them. And then, because WHAT IF, I have an overflow bin in my closet. It’s basically death row in there, except the judge is a total pussy IT’S NOT POLITE TO POINT, YOU KNOW and will just keep pardoning those SOBs even though it’s clear someone needs to pull the plug.

Meet four of the inmates.

None of these things does diddly squat in the way of supporting the wonder twins, which last time I checked was a sport’s bra’s primary purpose. They’re also not impossibly comfortable or particularly cute, and none of them bears the ubiquitous Lululemon horseshoe logo that immediately makes an average scrap of lycra approximately eleventeen billion times more desirable.

In other words, I am hereby parting with these failures of the under(garment) world.

I am woman, hear me roar.