“Someone stole my bra off my car.” What? The thoughts that ran through my mind in the milli-second after that statement were varied and many.

Nan was a tall, thin, athletic girl in my freshman biology class at The University of Tennessee. She was on the pom-pom squad and could be seen any given fall Saturday pom-pomming her way through the famed Neyland Stadium before 102,455 rabid orange fans.

What I asked in that moment was, “Why would anyone steal your bra off your car?” I was genuinely dumbfounded and I think that came across pretty clearly. What I wanted to ask was, “Why was your bra left on your car?” but I was afraid of the answer that a freshman pom-pom girl might give. My naive ears wouldn’t be able to handle the lecherous explanation and she would be forever etched in my mind as another female victim gone to the dark side. I left the conversation shaking my head.

It wasn’t until weeks later that I was flipping through a JC Whitney catalogue, scanning the unaffordable mods that I could wrench to my ‘73 Jeep truck, that it clicked. Eyes winced closed, my head dropped to my chest like a wet sponge. My mind again raced through a milli-second realization of that conversation with Nan. Just how bewildered had I seemed when Nan broke the story? How much did I lean in on my incomprehension? Had she calculated my ignorance?

I’ll never know. I do know that you can buy a bra for your car that keeps road debris from pecking the paint on your grill.