Life Without You. Liesel Schmidt

right.”

      “You do occasionally look in the mirror, right?”

      “Only when I have to,” she sighed.

      “No pity here, babe. Nu-uh. If I didn’t love you so much, I’d hate you. But you’re far too awesome for that. And that husband of yours is definitely not hard to look at.” I paused, feeling a little ding in my head go off. “Ooh, there’s gotta be an article there. ‘Below the Bible Belt: Hot Southern Preachers and the Women Who Stoke the Fires of their Pulpits.’” I tittered.

      “Shame on you! Does Mama know you talk like that?”

      “Where do you think I get it? You can add us both to your prayer list,” I teased. “Or tell that church gossip of yours MayBeth Andrews. She’ll have an email chain out faster than you can blink.”

      “Now, now,” Charlie tsked. “MayBeth means well.”

      “Of course she does, bless her heart,” I said sarcastically, invoking the phrase Miss MayBeth loved to insert into every possible moment of conversation. Now there was a drinking game in the making—MayBeth said, “Bless her heart!” Everybody drink!

      “She does. I think it’s just misplaced good intentions. You know how her mother is, and that’s where I think she gets it. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, as they say.”

      “Uh-huh. Well, maybe MayBeth could use some new panties of her own,” I grumbled.

      “Bless her heart,” Charlie said, dissolving into laughter.

      The panties exploding in a riot of color from their various drawers at the lingerie store were nothing if not a bold statement in celebration of the right to decorate your derriere. And various other lady bits, of course. And since I hadn’t been to the lingerie store for more than a year, I felt a bit like a little kid in a candy store as I rifled through the multitudinous styles and fabrics that came in my size.

      Throngs of thongs and billions of bikinis, heaps of hipsters… It made the eyes cross. If I was going to be honest, I wanted them all. I wanted to gorge myself on them and not have to choose. I wanted to lay claim to every pair that even hinted at impracticality and march my soon-to-be-spectacular butt up to the black-clad ladies behind the cashier’s counter and plunk down my pile of goodies.

      Not so much for the panties themselves, but for what they represented. All through my mess of a marriage, my cache of fun, flirty panties had gone either unappreciated or scoffed at—a reaction that I had definitely not expected. Naive perhaps, but I had thought that the man I married would take one look at my lovely little lacies and light up with glee. Instead, I got raised eyebrows or shrugs, followed by a dismissive, “They’re a pointless waste of money.”

      So I had done the logical thing, the economic thing.

      The defeated thing.

      I had taken stock of all of my brand-spanking-new-with tags but un-returnable pretties and posted them for sale on Craigslist and eBay, netting me far less money than they were worth, perhaps; but soothing my sense of having made an unnecessary and extremely unwise splurge on something so silly as panties.

      Which, consequently, now left me with a huge hole in my underwear drawer—not only number-wise, but in regards to variety and style. Everything was either black, white, or nude. And now, after so many wears, all of it had seen far better days. Hence my mother’s concern at the TSA agents catching a glimpse of the sad state of affairs if they so happened to rifle my drawers. Not to mention Charlie’s support of my bucket list and her insistence that I make a concerted effort to replace the contents of my lingerie drawer with something a little more racy.

      We were all, in a way, trying to resuscitate me, one pair of panties at a time.

      One bucket-listed goal at a time.

      “These are perfect, Dellie!” Charlie squealed, gleefully holding up a pair of extremely pink, extremely sparkly pair of bikinis that were covered in sequins.

      They were loud.

      They were proud.

      They were the most impractical, most sparkly pair of panties I had ever seen.

      And they were going to be mine.

      “Oooh, Charlie,” I breathed, taking the substantially sequined slip of fabric in my hands, stroking the sparkles reverently. “They’re beautiful.”

      “And you’re going to get them, even if I have to drag you to the register by your hair,” she insisted.

      “They’re so pretty,” I said again, still not raising my voice above a whisper.

      “And you’re getting them,” she repeated. “Right?”

      I flicked the price tag. “Good God, they’re expensive. I can’t get these, Charlie. It’s ridiculous. They’re so far from practical it’s insane,” I said, feeling my desire for the panties and my resolve at working on my project slipping under the surface of my budget consciousness.

      Charlie narrowed her blue eyes at me. “Odelle Pearl,” she said, her previously radiant glow of triumph now replaced by a glower. “Do they cover your ass?”

      “You said ass,” I squeaked, eyeing my eighteen-month-old nephew as he peeked out from the baby backpack currently strapped to her back.

      “Zeke’s not going to rat us out, so stop trying to distract me while you come up with excuses about why you really shouldn’t get them. You. Are. Getting. Them,” she growled.

      “But they’re…they’re…” I stammered.

      “They cover everything that needs to be covered, Dellie. They just do it in a spectacularly sparkly way, which makes them absolutely, insanely perfect. And therefore, they are necessary.”

      I looked down at the panties in my hand. They were so pretty. I could imagine myself wearing them. Feeling pretty, feeling strong. Feeling special and confident, even though no one would know I was wearing them.

      They more than simply panties. They were a symbol of freedom. A symbol of hope.

      And therefore, just as my sister had so wisely declared—necessary.

      Those last days flew by as I finished packing, still trying to kick myself into the proper headspace for this whole adventure.

      That was how I was trying oh-so-determinedly to think of it.

      An adventure. A search to find a new me…or even to reconnect with the self I had let myself lose. Once upon a time, people had told me I sparkled, and I wanted more than anything to be that girl—or rather, that woman—again. I wanted to be inspiring to people, to leave them basking in the afterimage brightness of my glow. I wanted to approach life with abandon and optimism, rather than fear.

      As I strapped myself into my seat on my US Airways flight, a small smile crept across my lips. I may have been dressed in a pair of plain-Jane jeans that needed replacing and a well-cut but unremarkable white button-down, but underneath it all, there was a pair of panties with enough shine to guide a plane back to the runway.

      Remember who you are, Dellie, I thought, settling in as the flight attendant instructed us on the finer points of surviving a crash landing. Remember who you are and let people see you sparkle.

       Chapter Six

      There had always been a can of White Rain hairspray in the cabinet, the kind with the shiny green cap and green writing on its silver surface. I remembered the smell of Noxzema, the mentholated white cream in the blue plastic jar, before they went all designer and started making everything from lotions to blackhead-zapping treatments and exfoliating scrubs. Back then, you had one choice: the no-nonsense blue jar with a screw-on lid. No pumps, no frills. Just that unmistakable blue jar. I would look for that jar