Bra Trauma

Am currently in my divorce digs, the bedroom of a friend’s daughter. She’s currently in London attending graduate school.

Accidentally discovered a minor hazard staying here. The other morning, still dark out, I plunged my hand into the top dresser drawer to grab t-shirt, and came up with black bra.

Ooh, ack, uhh.

I tossed the thing on the ground like it was an invading reptile. I mean I’ve known this kid since she was in the belly. The thought of touching her...the whole thing was mildly traumatic.

Rationality kicked in. “Relax Lou. You we’re in fashion. What’s it to you if you touch the boob baskets of a twenty-three year old.” My jeans lay on the floor next to the brazier. Using them like a paper towel, I picked up the bra and replaced it in the drawer. Then I carefully opened the second drawer to grab a t-shirt.

Upstairs, I should have made some coffee and read the news like everyone else in America. Instead I told my hosts in a slightly self-conscious tone, “Ha, you’ll never guess what happened with your daughter’s bra.”

Through her chuckles the mother said, “She doesn’t even fit into those anymore, those are from her highschool years.”

Ooh, ack, uhh.