In the bottom corner of my overstuffed dresser drawer of running clothes is a 9-year-old sports bra. Its once-fiery orange has faded to a dingy, tepid coral. Two of its hooks are bent in directions that make it impossible to wear. The Velcro straps—adjustable for comfort on this Cadillac of bras—don’t stick together anymore, which means that if I were to put it on, my breasts would loll out like a pair of microwaved Peeps. This nearly decade-old bra is the opposite of lingerie. Frankly, it’s a little gross that I still have it, but I can’t bring myself to...