I am no longer super.
I have had a Critical Underwear Failure. You know that thing that happens with socks and underwear, where one pair wears out, and then another, and pretty soon you get nervous when you open the drawer, because surely it can't be time to do laundry again, the rest of your clothes are still fine. I've thrown out two pairs of panties this week, and the latest casualty was my bright blue superhero drawers.
They were not grown-up Underroos. They had nothing overtly super about them. But they were superhero blue. C'mon, you know the blue. Super. I sold an essay about them and Underroos, about how different it was for girls to grow up with secret superhero identities on our skivvies instead of corsetry or girdles. They more than paid for themselves. They were good. The bra gave out ages ago, going the way of all flesh and also all flesh-supporting undergarments, so really I've only been slightly super for awhile. It just wasn't the same. After the bra went, I never sang myself a little super fanfare while getting dressed. Still, they were mine, and they were superhero blue, and some days you're just not feeling super, and a little help no one else can see is not unwelcome.
(I realize that this sentiment is not at all universal.)
I've ordered reinforcements, but I don't know when the cavalry will arrive or how good it will be, and anyway, none of it is the right blue. I will be content, satisfied, if I can go back to doing laundry at sensible intervals. And I know, objects are just objects, clothes are just clothes.
Still. Sigh. Sic transit etc.