Apologies

Last weekend I took an airplane ride, a couple in fact. I hadn't done that, for good reason, in almost a quarter century. I hate flying. Call me crazy but I have a strong fear of being suspended 30,000 feet in the air without a parachute.

As I took a last look at my tsunami hazard zone of a room, this is what glared back at me.


I immediately imagined how, should anything, er, happen, I would forever be the girl who left her bra on the floor. And what a bra to boot. You'd think it could have been something black and lacy. No, it's practically a cross-your-heart. Le groan.

The pathetic, smushed cups were enough to shame me into stuffing them into a laundry bag before leaving. It even prompted me to make a few last minute organizational maneuvers, but it was much too late to start spring cleaning.

On the ride to the airport the state of my affairs peculiarly tagged along. It was much too late to tell them.

If I really thought I wasn't coming back, I suppose I wouldn't have gone. If I was wrong, though, what a mess I'd have left behind.