Now, my underwire's coming out

My first day in my new town the underwire from my bra came poking out.* As we women know, once that happens, there is little hope for recovery. You can stuff that damn wire down. You can duct tape it back into the place where it belongs. You can put a cotton ball where it is rubbing and tearing your skin. But eventually surgery and extraction must be performed. And after that, a little funeral for the deceased. And as we big breasted women have learned, an underwire bra without the underwire is merely a tee-shirt. And it was my favorite.

I have lost my sunglasses. I think I lost them on Saturday when it was so friggin’ rainy, dreary, and gray, and, I obviously didn’t need them so they got tossed somewhere. Will you let me know if you find them?

Hope this pattern soon ends and I stop losing things.

I did my first load of laundry as “a single gal.” And although my STBX husband usually did the laundry (Don’t you dare say a word. I do not want anyone asking me why I would leave a man who did the laundry.), I think it’s my underwear’s first trip in the washer and dryer without boy underwear. I think they kinda liked it.



*This time it was at the armpit side as opposed to the front. One Easter the underwire came out at the front right under my chin and literally snaked its way out during communion. I had to remove it while receiving “the body of Christ,” but luckily, the priest at the time was the father of 5 daughters, and I am assured he understood what the problem was. Matter of fact, he practically fell over laughing as I held the wire with the wafer in my hand.