My Darling Daughter bought me a set of those little modesty panels — they’re basically a piece of decorated cloth that one can affix to the bra so that a low-cut blouse is rendered socially acceptable. They come in three colors — beige, white and black. I’ve worn them with different tops at the office. They’re especially nice in the summer, when I don’t want to wear a full camisole under a blouse.
And then I lost them.
I tore apart my underwear drawer. I took everything out of my pajama drawer. I checked a lingerie bag in my closet — nope, just shoulder pads. I carefully went through my drawer of scarves. I didn’t want to rummage through it too roughly, or I’d never get the drawer shut again.
HighGuy knew I was looking for them, too. He used a flashlight to check behind the dresser, and even checked his underwear drawer in case they’d been swept in by mistake. Nope, no luck.
I thought about just buying another set, but hadn’t done it, when HighGuy asked if I’d packed my “cheaters” for the wedding of our niece. I didn’t think I had, but who knew? I went straight to the bag I’d used and checked inside. Nope. I checked the pockets, pulled out a laundry bag, and voila! There they were, underneath the laundry bag. All three of them.
I thanked HighGuy profusely for his help, thinking that he’d redeemed himself from any suspicion of “losing it.” That’s a real fear as you age: losing it. “It” being your marbles or whatever other euphemism you want to use for memory or sanity. We’re both watching each other for signs. Just last night, I sighed as I got into bed and whined about all the different pills I take these days — for heartburn, blood pressure, allergies. I just hope they aren’t interacting and cancelling one another out.
HighGuy really took a major step backwards yesterday. And he was doing so well. He has a little mountain of shoes behind his recliner in the living room. It’s his three pairs of shoes that he commonly wears: a pair of ratty older brown leather loafers for yardwork, a pair of newer nicer brown leather loafers for work, and a pair of black slip-on tennies with the fitness-type sole.
Yesterday morning I noticed one of his loafers under his chair. I brought it out, tossed it on the pile, and realized there wasn’t a mate for it. One of the black tennies was missing, too. I chuckled and thought about phoning him, but I didn’t want him to be self-conscious about his shoe choice all day.
When I got home yesterday after work, there was HighGuy, working on the garage door. (That’s another story.) I looked down at his feet and said, “Nice shoes.” He looked at them for a long time; I thought maybe he didn’t notice the difference for a moment. He laughed, and said that he hadn’t noticed, and that his co-worker hadn’t said anything either.
Now this isn’t just a black shoe and a blue shoe of the same type, or a black and a brown shoe of the same style. This is a brown loafer and a black tennie with a built-up sole that’s supposed to help you lose weight or gain strength while walking. (Right.) I can’t imagine how he could go through an entire day and not FEEL the difference.
He explained that he used one shoe to keep the door from banging shut in the morning, and that’s why it went under the recliner. What I don’t understand is how he could not feel the difference in the height of the soles. What’s that saying? Two steps forward, one step back.