Monday, August 15, 2011

Under The Wire: The Death and Re-Birth Of Bob

Morning Readers,

     "Say it ain't so...." I looked at my old friend, his straps hanging sadly from my pointer finger. A moment later, my head was in the washing machine. "Crap." With a tug, I extracted the half-moon-shaped piece of metal stuck to the side of the whirlpool like the spindly arm of a Gucci model. The washing machine had killed Bob, my one and only bra. For a moment I let the emotions wash over me, reflected on all the good times: his constant support, his smile...the way he'd always seen to whisper, "You're up and even, now get out there and raise those kids, champ."

     "Bob's dead." I bit my lip so the tears wouldn't start again.

     " Who's Bob?"

     "My only bra. He was eaten by the washing machine, early this morning. I'll give you a moment."

     "Your only one? How do you only have one?" Husband raised an eyebrow.
 
     "Had one. And...I don't know. I've got some sports bras to get me through the next thirty years, though.

     "We'll go this weekend. You, me and the kids. We'll get you a new bra."

     "All of us?...Oh, good..."

     There are few things mothers do in solace. Going to the bathroom, eating, burrowing their way to freedom under the neighbors fence with a teaspoon, all things which summon a large crowd. Bra shopping? By definition, it's a solitary activity. I've yet to see the Victoria's Secret ad showing an exhausted Heidi Klum trying on spandex and screaming, "Schnell!", while her kids play Red Rover in the dressing room. But, come Saturday, we'd packed up and headed to the store...the kind of store where you can buy a bra and Cheetos within the same twelve-foot radius.

     "OK, I'll walk them around and you go find something...anything." Husband steered Butch and Sundance towards the toy aisle.

     Defeated, I looked around helplessly at the miles of nylon and depression. And, just as I decided on a life of sports bras and duct tape, I saw it, the words of Professor Dumbledore reverberating off the rack of fifty-percent-off ankle socks.“Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. They burst into flame when it is time for them to die, and then they are reborn from the ashes. Ah, fascinating creatures, phoenixes.”

      "I found some." Having located Husband and the babies, I showed him my haul.

     "Um..They look like your last one."

     "Yep, Bob's back. Thank goodness for mass-produced undergarments, right?"

     Shaking his head, Husband steered the babies towards the checkout. And as we walked out of the store, I distinctly heard a whisper from the cheap plastic bag.

"You're up and even, now get out there, Champ."

Until Next Time, Readers!