Three bras. No, four.

Three bras. I will take three bras with me to LA.

No, four.

I can only take four bras. I’ll take two utility bras, a strapless, and one nice one so that I can wear it underneath whatever frumpy server uniform I have to wear in Los Angeles. It is my understanding that women wear nice underwear under not-so-nice clothing to remind themselves that they are still desirable despite the fact that they are wearing kulots or a giant taco hat.

Packing for Los Angeles is a lot like packing for an extended camping trip. There is no particular rhyme or reason other than one rule: if I can’t keep something in the likely situation of me living out of my car one day, then it’s better off staying in Georgia or finding a home elsewhere. Certain things will prove more difficult to part with, but certain things - bras and underwear, for example - must be packed in like sardines.

I read Missed Connections like it was my job. I am guilty of poking around the prostitution section because, when I go through periods of self loathing, it helps to remind myself that I would never sink so low as to respond to anyone who used the phrase Sweet Poontato Puddin'. Despite my horrific fascination with the worst of Craigslist, I have never actually used it to sell anything. I once bought a dresser from a third wave feminist who lived in Inman Park. Her neighbor helped us carry it down the stairs and stuff it into my car before offering me a joint. I politely declined and haven’t used Craigslist for anything remotely close to what it was originally intended for since.

That's about to change. 

I spent the past few days sorting through random items, trying to come up with a system to evaluate sentimental attachment. How much is enough to keep something in storage? How much is enough to actually cart something with me? For example, I love my red shirt with the punk rock baby head on it, but it has shrunk to the point where it barely covers my under-boob. It is probably time to let it go.

Speaking of clothes, I was going through my wardrobe when I realized that I am more prepared for a life as a character in Scott Pilgrim than I am for a life in Los Angeles.  There’s something about the rainbows and bright, clashing colors that I never grew out of. Unlike the colors, however, I have not touched more than half of the articles of clothing hanging in my closet in over a year. I found that the first piece was the most difficult piece to get rid of. What would it be? How would I choose?

I took one last look at my punk rock baby shirt before folding it and placing it at the bottom of the box. Then I unloaded half of my clothes. Years of phases and personalities poured from my closet and into a box, destined for a yard sale and never to be worn by me again.

The bras face more of a life or death situation. This is the end of the line for most of them. I'm reminded of Sylvie from Me and You and Everyone We Know when she approaches the store clerk with an electronic mixer and asks, "Is it a classic instrument? Do you see people using this in, oh, twenty years or so?"

"Is it a classic?" I ask myself.

Three bras have made it through.

No. Not three. Four.