My friends are starting to worry about me. This birthday is hitting hard.
Just today my friend Jincey sent me a reassuring e-mail: You’re going to be fine, Mary.
I believed her for an hour or so. After all, I don’t feel decrepit. Sometimes I even feel pretty spiffy, like I’ve got some pretty hot years left. Okay, hot may be the wrong word there. Something more along the lines of “still ticking” perhaps.
But then, Dearly Beloved opened the pantry this morning to select a cereal and asked an odd question which threw me back into the shadows.
“Do you know there is a bag of lettuce in here?”
Um. . . negative on that one.
He handed to me and I suppose the good news is that I did it two days ago and not two months ago. Good news for the lettuce anyway. I stuck it in intensive care–the crisper drawer of the refrigerator–and will decide later whether or not it’s still edible.
The lettuce purchase was made the same day I went to the huge consignment store here in search of a coffee table. I don’t want one to scream “I’m new!” The hunt is on to find something to blend in with the rest of the furniture, since I fell on the old one and snapped the top off. Our contractor, who stayed so long on previous projects he thought he should put his name on our mailbox, had told me he’d repair it, but after waiting six months for him to remember to pick it up, we finally moved it into the garage. That’s where I promptly broke the glass that goes with it, so things are not looking promising for the table to ever make it back into the house.
I wanted something with just a little pizzazz. Four buildings later (I did mention the consignment place is large, didn’t I?) all hope was abandoned, since I hadn’t found a coffee table that didn’t scream, “My former home was a fraternity house/trailer/day nursery/car dealership waiting room.” I did stumble upon a clearance on Christmas ornaments though, where a large bowl of little personalized jingle bell people caught my eye. I sifted through them looking for familiar names.
It was full of Staceys, Carls, Seans. . . which rang no bells for me, thus nixing my initial thought of using them as clever little gift tags for the family next year, but I did find a few friends’ names. I kept digging and eventually came up with John and Mary. Success! There is something to be said for having the two blandest names in the world. I made my purchase and promptly forgot about them. This morning I retrieved them from the car to show Dearly Beloved.
Look, we can hang on the Christmas tree together next year.
Look closely. . . more closely than I did.