The Party Bra

Jo called. "This is so intense," she said. "I'm coming up there. I'm taking you shopping, then we'll go to Temple together and give your mom the day off." There was no arguing with Jo, anyway I didn't want to argue. Dad was 3 weeks in the surgical ICU not making any progress, and Mom and I were emotionally exhausted. Jo was coming. Mom and I would have a break in the monotony of traveling in and out of Philly together, an hour each way, visiting a man who would not awaken. Everyday the doctors said the same thing: "We just don't know."

Jo pulled into the driveway on Friday afternoon at the same time we were returning from our daily trek to Temple. She lugged in a HUGE pan of peanut butter fudge. Mom stayed behind to make phone calls and embark upon a fudge-based-stress-reduction regimen while Jo and I went to Kohl's in Exton.

In the large handicap dressing room together, I voted against a blouse and tossed it aside. "Uh, WHAT is THAT?" Jo asked, referring to my bra. I looked at it in the mirror. "What? I'm not saggy, am I?"

"Honey, you need a new bra. That thing is sad."

I reviewed it in the mirror. It was beige, but I think it used to be white. The straps were fraying a little, and there was a runner in the nylon on the side of the cup causing a pucker. I had to agree that it was sad.

"Bras are not a priority for me right now, Jo."

"Stop. You need a Party Bra. Every woman should have a sexy bra that makes her feel good even though she is the only one who knows. There should be a party going on under every t-shirt and turtleneck in America."

This was part of Jo's midlife crisis. She had lost weight, which had done favors for her curves, and she became obsessed with underthings. Randomly, she texts me photos of her bosoms in V-neck dresses or in new bras with messages like "Jo's got her groove back" or "44 going on 30". We split up to scour the racks for Party Bras. Mostly I gravitate toward matronly bras with padded straps, full coverage, deadbolt latches and emergency ripcords because I don't like any jiggle or sag. Cutesy, silky, decorative bras don't usually do the job, and I gave up on them a long time ago. Even when I was 12, I hated the stupid embroidery flower in the middle of training bras and would cut them off immediately. But today I was in Jo's hands.

Soon she was charging toward me waving a fuchsia bra with black lace trim. "No!" I protested. "Hush, just try it." When I put it on, I laughed. I hadn't laughed in days. It was ridiculous. Was it supposed to be sexy? Do people really wear these? But Jo was right. It made me laugh and I saw the value of having a secret like this to share with myself. Jo would not let me escape without matching panties, so we found an equally ridiculous zebra and pink polyester number for a Party Down Below. Is this what a midlife crisis looks like?

The next morning as I dressed, I was already anxious. The hospital had called early. Dad aspirated overnight and they were trying to regulate his breathing. Mom would not get her day off as we had planned. I looked at my new purchases on the dresser. If there was any day I would need a pick-me-up, it would be today. I tore the tags off the Party Bra with my teeth, and donned the polyester underpants. There. Please God, let this Secret Party lighten my load today.

It was a Saturday. The Philadelphia Flower Show was drawing record crowds. Traffic was gridlocked. It took us several hours to get to Temple. En route, the hospital called twice to ask us how close we were. With each call, our stress mounted. They kept dad "alive" on the ventilator until we arrived bedside. His skin was already cool to the touch when I kissed him goodbye. They snapped off the machine and it was over in seconds. Nurses comforted us, rubbed my back and patted me gently on the hooks of the Party Bra they could not see under my sweater. They repeated, "I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry..."

After primary phone calls were made and we shifted from emotionally raw to just numb, we headed home. I drove, Jo rode shotgun, and Mom was in the backseat replaying the events in disbelief and making call after call. Jo and I were silent. Each of Mom's calls started out calmly but ended in tears. When she cried, Jo and I cried too as we listened to her tell the tale. Then it hit me. Through tears I looked at Jo: "This is NOT a Party Bra. It's a DEATH Bra!" and we burst into laughter like only a day of emotional tension can create. Mom leaned forward covering the phone with her hand, "What? Are you talking about me?" And that made us laugh harder.

I wore the Death Bra for dad's funeral. It seemed strangely appropriate. In a striped dress and black cardigan, I climbed the steps to the pulpit. I stood before a congregation of 250 to speak a few words of remembrance, and not a single mourner knew I sported hot pink cones of glory. One by one they hugged me and my Bra of Death: "I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry..."

I put away the Death Bra for a while. It carried too many sad memories. Then I said to myself, "This is stupid. It's just a bra! I didn't pay $40 for it to lay in a drawer." The underpants, I must say, were tossed after 1 use. They made me sweat so bad I knew I'd never wear them again - $1.99 wasted.

Jo called. "What are you packing for our trip? My new bathing suit shows lots of cleavage." We were heading to San Diego for business and for pleasure. I told her, "I guess I should bring my Party Bra if you are going to flash cleavage everywhere."

"Oh no you won't!" Jo insisted. "I'm not going down in flames over Kansas because your Death Bra is on board. Leave that thing right where it is, please."

"You are the one who made me buy it!" I was indignant. I had to get over my superstition and this wasn't helping.

"We'll get you a new one. How many shoes are you taking?" And that was that. The Party Bra stayed in the drawer.

A month later, I tried again. I wore it a third time. Two things happened that day. First, I learned that B.B. King died. Marty and I had the privilege of watching him play once, and it was sad to know that The Thrill was Gone forever. Second, Mom told me that she saw a helicopter flying so low that she thought it was going to crash into her house. I couldn't take any more risks - that was the last day I wore the Death Bra.

Until today. It has been 5 months since B.B. King died, and I decided I needed to wear it or burn it. So here I sit, cupped in brilliant pink, ending my day, death-free. But I think I might burn it anyway. It's probably carcinogenic.