Going Commando

Most people have something without which they cannot start their day.  For some it’s coffee.  Or a shower.   A friend espouses, “You’re not truly awake until you’ve brushed your teeth.”

For me, I can’t think without a bra.  I’m just that way.  I need everything on lock-down before I can form sentences.

I recently went on a cruise with my parents (and I could write a book on the horrors of cruising and the single gal, but I’ll spare you).

On the last night of our cruise, because over 1,600 people all needed to disembark at exactly the same time in the morning, the crew required that passengers place their luggage – meticulously tagged – outside their doors by midnight.  And so the checking began:  Got your medicines?  Check!  Got your hearing aides?  Check!  Outfits?  Check!

I was so good at getting my parents completely ready that I neglected to check myself.  I had packed my bra.  In the morning, all I was left with for torso coverage was a small, cotton camisole and a large, lumpy sweatshirt.

And, so, I couldn’t think.   Without my father’s gale-force laughter, I might have been able to fashion myself some form of rudimentary undergarment from the cloth breakfast napkins, but without I bra, I couldn’t think.  So Commando I would go!

I’ve always wanted to be that woman everyone sees in any airport:  Coolly gliding through the airport in her giant sunglasses, dressed in white, while someone else carries her matched Louis Vuitton.  I’m not her.  I’m the red-faced, sweaty, carrying three carry-on bags plus two purses while pushing a wheelchair gal.  And now I was doing it without a bra.  Soundtracked by my father’s laughter.

The only up-side to traveling with someone in a wheelchair is that, by proximity, you get whisked through TSA and customs.  For whatever reason, the TSA threw me out of the expedited line.

I’m a very good traveler:  I travel light, wear slip-on shoes, no jewelry or belts, etc.  I’m good at it.  When they asked me if I’d taken everything out of my pockets, I said yes.  I’d forgotten about the two large pockets in the front of my lumpy sweatshirt (‘cause I couldn’t think!).   These contained the need-right-now, emergency-access stuff:  Aspirin, ear-plugs, jerky, yo-yo (don’t ask), cigs (don’t judge), tip money, etc.

I emptied my pockets, but forgot that my passport was in my back pocket (my butt is as flat as a passport, so can you blame me?)  That got me pulled out of the line, and forced to remove my sweatshirt.  Horror of horrors!  I was made to dance around, floppily, in the full-body scanner in front of my increasingly-angry, former-fellow passengers.

I’m glad I made my father laugh, but I will tell you what I learned:  I’m that gal with the most comprehensive, emergency-equipped handbag.  Anything that befalls you – I am to your rescue.  But from now on – me first – I will always carry a sports bra.

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