I have a bit of a routine when I come in from work: give Jack a kiss, pet my animals and take off my bra. Yes, you read that right.
Okay, so that might be a little bit too much information, but you’re still reading this so what does that say about you, hmm? (Iloveyoudontleaveme)
Look, it could be worse. I could be coming home and snorting lines of cocaine from Jack’s thighs (sorry). Perspective, people, perspective.
I work hard(ish). Like most people, by the time I get home, I’m tired. Taking off my bra is strangely liberating. It’s like all the stress of the day is whipped off in a swift movement my inner 1960s feminist hippie would be proud of (she also stands there grinning at me with a lighter and a canister of petrol in her hands, the psycho).
I do this most days of the week because most days of the week, I’m just coming home to Jack (I want you to keep in mind, I still keep my clothes on. Man, this just got awkward).
I urge you to try it. Set those babies free (and this officially just got weird). Look, even Jack Nicholson’s doing it.