Last night I was watching my husband sort a load of clean laundry that I had abandoned in the washing machine. We talked about our day while he carefully hung up all my bras so that they could drip dry.
Me, I usually toss everything in together and then end up throwing on a hot bra from the dryer with a bent hook that sears my back. But here he was, my awesome guy, taking the time to separate my undergarments from a sodden ball of clothing and then carefully hanging them up one by one.
I looked at him. Then I looked at the row of clean, giant cotton bras he had lovingly assembled. Bras with three hooks, bras with wide padded straps and bras with incredibly full coverage. Colors of pink, white, beige and beige again. Brassieres that my Grandma would have approved mightily of. Boulder holders that keep the girls in place while you scrub a floor or hoist a child into a bath.
And I motioned towards the rows of dripping elastic and said sarcastically, "Really sweetheart. It's a wonder you don't just take me here and now."
In response he nodded his head towards a pile of his own clean boxers that I had folder earlier. A pile of faded cotton with shot and stretched out elastic. And he said, "Back at you sweetheart."
And so we ditched the laundry and headed upstairs, giant bra, worn out boxers and all.