>Two women so different in age, in size, in stage of life. Yet once again (cue the tacky music) our bras got mixed up.
Monday morning, of course. It couldn’t happen any other day of the week. I reached for my, um, garments and found — one of La Petite’s bras instead of my own. It must have gotten mixed up in the laundry. Once again I thought I heard it wailing in fear as I stared at it, wondering how the heck this happened? She’s slim and trim. I’m not.
Wrapped up in a shower towel, I headed for the drying racks in the basement and grabbed one of my own. It was still damp, so I pulled out the hair dryer and blew some hot air (no silly comments from the peanut gallery, folks) in its direction. Then I gave up, threw the bra next to the heat vent, and threw my pajama top back on. A few minutes later, after breakfast was on the table and I’d finished putting in my contacts, I picked up the poor mishandled undergarment and finished dressing for work.
Then the day began, I taught my Tigger-clones, spent an hour at the doctor’s office with Amigo, and came home feeling like I should be singing something from the Musical episode of Scrubs. Never mind which song. You don’t. Want. To. Know.
So now, I feel done. Done in, done out. Not quite together enough to correct math tests, but maybe capable of putting stickers on the penmanship papers.
I could consider this Laundry Revenge, but I didn’t plan it. Honestly. At least not this time.
I just hope La Petite has enough spares to get through until Final Exams.