My bra and I

My bra and I took a bath together today. I'm not sure which of us needed it most.

While I may have seven bras, I actually wear only one of them. The rest are either too tight or the wrong texture or too boney or too thin or too itchy. It's a woman thing which also applies to shoes. A decade or two ago I'd wear all sorts of impractical things, standing tall and uncomfortable in scarlet push up and 3-inch pumps. Now, comfort is queen, and so my comfy bra gets a lot of use. And I mean a lot.

But back to the bath.

We needed it, both of us. I'd just come in from the first, overdue, mowing of the year. I'd spent the earlier part of the day driving a lovely young lady to the airport, and then doing battle with hospital bureaucracy and elderly stubbornness. The result was a fug of sadness and frustration and sweat, with only the slightest hint of fresh cut grass.

The bath was cool and delicious. I emerged blessedly clean, and smelling of tea and lemongrass from soap that had been milled by nuns. My bra continues to drip in vanilla-sugar scented relief, having been scrunched into cleanliness using Body Bath Shop shower gel.

Meanwhile, my mom is surrounded by the scents of alcohol, disinfectant, and wretchedness. And my stepdad sniffs back his tears and tries not to think about the future while measuring laundry detergent at home.

Alone.

Tomorrow will be another day of battle and worry. We'll start out strong and smelling fresh, my bra and I. We'll try to notice the scent of May flowers drifting through the air. We'll try to accept the limits of our control over the world and the people in it. And we'll hope for the best.