I, quite literally, hopped out of bed this morning. Prospects of escaping the house do that to me. Let me rewind and add that I usually do a quick "briefing" the minute I open my eyes, a review, if you will, of whether it's worth it to actually vacate the bed. Such as:
Good Morning, Me. Today is June the 24th, 2011. Is there anything worthwhile happening today? Let's see, grocery shopping, bill-paying, baby-nailclipping...what else?...what else?
If I can't come up with anything, I usually roll my muffin-top over and go back to sleep. But if, say, I remember, Ahh, yes, I'm going to the baseball game, tonight.., I usually fall out of bed a little quicker, start planning an outfit, and remember I'm the proud owner of one and only one bra.
I know, I know, things just got a little weird, but as I stare at my hamper, I can't help immersing myself in a kind of brassiere-based reverie, only because I can't figure out exactly how it got this bad. First thing's first, let me introduce you to Bob, the last, surviving member of my bra family. Bob should be commended for several achievements, namely, avoiding being eaten by the dog, accidentally being given to Good Will, or used to anchor the cable dish to the roof.
Now, Readers, before you go assuming I wear Bob day after day, it would be helpful to note that I do have a reserve of sports bras at the ready. Ahh, the sports bra, the faceless back-up singer of the bra world. With the amount of time I spend wearing one, Maria Sharapova and I could be sisters. Hanes has sent me Life Time Acheivement awards, seven times, and I've perfected the line, "Because I'm training for The Iron Man.." with such flair, the little jog I do at the end, is fairly convincing.
So, here I am, staring at Bob, Bob staring at me, my general problem stemming from the fact that he needs to be thrown in the wash and I have to gather enough clothing to make a load. That's what happens when one owns one, decent undergarment. There are no back-ups, no go-tos. It's either, wash the singular bra in the sink (or take it down to river with your washboard...I don't judge), or make excuses as to why the duvet needs to be laundered again...oh, and didn't Husband say he needed some clean socks?
Couldn't I just buy another one, you ask? I suppose so, but I'm the type of person who'll wait until Bob dies in a dryer fire or ends up cup-less, at the hands of the dog. And even then, I dread trying on chest compressors so much, I'll probably start rigging things with duct tape and well-placed lunch bags. There's nothing like homemade undergarments to really break the ice at the next work picnic or party:
Barb (the bosses wife): So, you're so and so's wife, how are you? Can I get you anything to drink?"
Smiling, I casually lean against the bar, a suspicious crinkling emits, seemingly from nowhere. "I'd love a drink."
Barb: Um..was that you crinkling?
Me: Why, yes. I make my own under-things. I'd be happy to show you, if you're interested in saving some money. But then, your husband makes twice as much as mine, so you probably don't need my help. Husband and I, on the other hand, live and die by our motto, "Always Frugal."
At any rate, I'm still left with trying to come up with a load of laundry. After I finish this post, I've got Bob going in with the pot-holders, the duvet, two, clean polo shirts, all my clothing that says "hand wash only" and a set of decorative napkins from Thanksgiving. Here's to hoping Bob doesn't come out with turkeys stamped on him. And tonight, it's off to the game...
Until Next Time, Readers!