Euphoria’s Secret

Amazing things started happening when I stopped wearing a bra in the
house.

There is little I can control at this point of my life. My internal weather man is
bananas.

The gray hairs, the sag, and
what the actual f* is happening to the skin under my arms?

For most of my life, l’ve been
strapping these weights in like Charles Manson in Quentin State. The Grand Canyon runs through both shoulders.

They were never welcome, always a source of shame. It wasn’t untill
nursed the first of my four kids that I thought, ok,l get it.

But since then, they’ve gone back, but not in the physical sense, to being part of the design, more an appendage to be squashed by Mammogram Terminator once a year, biopsied and prayed over, before returning to their permanent utility: crumb catchers.

It is a moment of bliss when that bra comes off at night. lf you know, you know…

TBH, sometimes I didn’t bother
and slept in not just makeup but an underwore bra! There were seemingly always teenaged boys at home (yeah, those
same kids who spent their first year on the very area we pretend does not exist on my person), so I kept the Bali on until they were in college.

Some people call this time of life
empty nest syndrome. I call it empty breast symdrome.

Sorry neighbors and husband and people who show up at my door unexpectedly. Sorry grown kids who show up to borrow the car or do laundry.

These weighted blankets never brought me comfort, or safety, but they did for the most important people in my life.
Now it’s time for me to be one of the most important people in my life, and damn it, I’m flying comfort class.