on underwear and aging

(Both of my computers are conspiring to die within minutes of each other, so I limp back and forth trying to get one that will let me sit down to write. But I persevere, at least for today, because Write is a verb.)

So I mentioned that during the basement flood, we ended up with a lot of extra dirty laundry. What I failed to mention, was that I was really, really behind on our regular laundry. Meaning my kid was wearing winter pajamas during a heat spell. (I solved that problem by buying more pajama bottoms at the consignment store, naturally.)

The regular laundry had to wait since the flood laundry was wet and in jeopardy of molding. Ewww. Moldy towels, is there anything worse?

I was also in jeopardy of running out of clean underwear myself. In fact, I was forced to wear a pair of “boy shorts” that I bought a couple years ago and wore exactly once before I discovered they were totally uncomfortable. Yes, they were cute and a 20-something would probably wear them and look hot, but let’s face it, I have birthed two children – boy shorts do not belong on this body.

And I’m actually OK with that. I am on the precipice of turning the big 4-oh. I am celebrating turning 40 and will wear it like a badge of honor. I will not turn 40 in boy shorts. Instead I will turn 40 with wisdom I didn’t have when I was 20 and confidence I didn’t have when I was 30.

To 40, I say, bring it.

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