Solid Underpinnings

Sometimes, it's just all about the bra.

Yesterday, my daughter and I went shopping for some new ones so that she could start her sophomore year in high school in style. She tried to convince me to get myself a few -- maybe something a little less faded and stretched out than my usual fare. Ooh, they were pretty and soft, and they came in so many tantalizing colors. But I resisted. Some things just have to be left, well, hanging while I sort through the rest of my budgetary woes.

My mother has always understood the importance of a good bra, and, unlike me, doesn't wear hers until they take on a life all their own. When I emailed her to find out whether she had survived (or even noticed) the earthquake that rattled some New York City windows, she was dismissive. Sure, she had heard some noises (probably the nonfunctional hearing aid that often beeps incessantly in her ear) and did see a dresser drawer fly open, but she really didn't feel any shaking. Of course, when we were in a car accident in May during which she broke her pelvis, her shoulder, and some ribs, she didn't notice we were actually hit; she thought we had just swerved. Alrighty, then.

Diminished powers of observation aside, my mother is one shrewd cookie. When there's a disaster of any kind, or the threat of one, my mom is prepared. She has always kept some fancy nightgowns packed and ready in case she needs to be rushed to the hospital. She always carries an umbrella. She takes two sets of car keys with her (so that, as far as I can tell, she can lock both of them in the car together.) And, yesterday, knowing full well there could be aftershocks, she had a foolproof disaster plan in place. "I usually take my bra off when I'm in for the day," she emailed. "I'm keeping it on -- ya never know!!"

Damn straight! For the sake of my mother's vanity, and, let's face it, for the sake of all the other folks in the neighborhood, taking that bra off was way too risky. The sight of a braless eighty year old woman in a St. John suit could scar one for life.

I sure wished I was wearing a brand spanking new bra this evening when I ran into someone I had dated not long ago. But no, there I was in the zit cream aisle of Walgreens, lettuce from my salad still in my teeth, my hair so greasy you could fry an egg on it, my frayed bra barely holding my boobs more than an inch off the floor. Bet he's sorry he let me get away.

From here on in, no matter how lousy a mood I'm in, I'm gonna put myself together, even if it's only for a trip to Walgreens. Like my mom says, "ya never know!!"