Mentally preparing for a trip to China, I was rummaging around in my cobwebby memory for anything I’d be forced to hand over — guiltily — if I were flying today. That advance planning is a holdover from carrying around my passport daily and grabbing the stashed luggage from under my desk at the drop of a hat every few weeks in the previous job — in the past year my traveling’s been limited to taking either 45 North to the Pike or 495 South to 95 North: a nailbiter of a decision I use to keep on my toes as a daily exercise. Gel seems to be the biggest culprit, but I don’t use hair gel (as if I need to get my hair any straighter or flatter). And I suppose there’re some toothpastes of mass destruction out there, but my Tom’s isn’t gel-based.
The only scary item I could think of was my favorite bikini (oh yes, there was a time when I dared, or bared) from 1995: I think it was right around the glorious debut of the Wonderbra, when clothing manufacturers were openly stuffing the tops of EVERYTHING with magical gel stuff that made me look like Pamela Anderson: from my wedding gown to that lovely cabbage rose bikini top I found in Nantucket. OK, maybe Pamela Anderson from her first Playboy appearance, pre-surgery, but still, she had something going on, and lo and behold, suddenly I did, too. Hey, I’m married, I’m human: I’ve peeked into that box marked “fishing supplies — bait and tackle” tucked up on the high shelf out in the workshop and I know the Playboy continuum by heart.
I do miss that wild bikini. You see, there was our unplanned puppyhood. The sharp little fangs of a 2 month old black lab can do horrible things to a gel-based bikini top. I found its remains strewn in violent cabbage rose red gel rivulets from one end to the other of our lovely condo overlooking the Arboretum. Horrible sight. But a blaze of glory for that bikini nevertheless.
What would have befallen that suit today? The bikini, no doubt, would be confiscated and thrown unceremoniously into a large blue garbage vat, along with sneakers and hair products and soda. Fortunately, my favorite bikini did not fade away like that.
But now that motherhood approaches … slowly … I realize the dangers are legion: my diaper bag wish list is a terrorist’s dream: including enough diaper gel to make Samuel L. Jackson himself wet his pants!!