Mackenzie Rollins | Weblog

On any given day, it’s possible for quite a plethora of things to fall from my bra. I think of it as a space for multi-purpose storage. Chapstick, gum, or the alternate pair of earrings I just might decide (a few hours late) are perfect for the day’s outfit. Parking stubs for the garage, the other favored flavor of bubble gum (as you must have both a fruity and minty option at all times), or bobby pins. 

I think it’s a woman-thing, though maybe I just tell myself that so I don’t feel so ridiculous for using my (more often than not) discounted fabric cups (labeled with the earliest letters of the alphabet) for all types of support. Good breath, soft lips, less unruly hair, all-day parking. I need a bra much more for these other things than for their original design. 

So yesterday, my cups and I went on a run. A long one. I’ve been running more the past few months. It’s therapeutic and a time for me to think. Has been helpful in an effort to lose bad habits and practice better ones.

I woke up at four and decided, after many failed attempts (and torpedo rolls to find the perfect position) to get up. Fine. Fine. Don’t sleep. You’ll regret it by about 11 a.m. and I won’t feel badly because I warned you…

And because I knew I was going to try 13 miles, I stocked up beforehand. 

Chapstick. Check.

2 sticks gum. Check.

Extra rubber band. Check.

A few bobbies. Check check.

I stopped a few times to take pictures with my phone (which was totally designed by a woman because of it’s multi-purposeness) because of the stunning Seattle sky. At four, it’s dark here. At four fifteen, the birds begin stirring, flapping, uttering…and the sky begins to wake. Four thirty, in creeps the shy ethereal glow. Almost simultaneously, said birds grow more confident in their song. The flame of the sun strengthens and moves from crisp whites, calming blues to the most startling shades of red, yellow, orange you can imagine. And if you do try to imagine, it’s not good enough. It was prettier than what’s in your head. Scout’s honor.

About halfway through, when the sky looked as if a sticky-fingered and satisfied child had smeared watermelon across, I reached into my now-soaked storage unit for chapstick. And that’s when gross happened.

I felt the creepy crawly non-plastic-and-surely-insecty legs of a spider and, in a matter of seconds, exhibited all of the typical girl-finds-bug reactions one would imagine. Screaming. Flailing arms. Screaming while flailing arms. And as if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, all of my shelved items went flying every which way.

My stupid chapstick even rolled in the stupid lake, which was reflecting a stupid canary color from the sky above. 

Ducks in out of a row.

It’s amazing how quickly my world can unravel. And for the record, I don’t think my ducks are ducks. I think they’re pigeons.

Goodbra for now. I love you.