Still counting down to 50 – getting closer.
25. I have to admit, sometimes I do things that make even me shake my head.
Not immediately – but often not long after.
Like when I thought it would be funny to take a baggie of ditch weed home to my deputy sheriff husband – forgetting that I had a tendency to get pulled over for speeding on a regular basis. I didn’t get stopped, but the hubs wasn’t at all amused.
Or when I threw caution to the wind and put two forged steel steak knives in the dishwater, just knowing I’d be able to safely pull them out and wash them without issue. Six hours in the ER and 35 stitches later (21 on one side of my index finger, 14 on the other side, where the knife poked through) I realized I was wrong.
Or the many, many times I’ve worn a clean white shirt out of my house and came home with a coffee/salad dressing/soda/ketchup/whatever stain on it. Friends generally shake their heads when we go out to lunch or dinner, just waiting to see what it is that’s going to find its way onto my shirt. And it’s not always on the front of the shirt – that’s the thing. I’ve leaned against a wall or post and ended up with grease on my shoulder.
White and I just aren’t really meant to be.
So I’m not sure exactly what I was thinking when I bought an ivory love seat for my new apartment. It looks great with the decor and the other furniture, I really like how all of the colors in the room just blend together.
But … it’s ivory. That’s just a shade or two darker than white. I’m sure anyone who knows me saw the pictures and thought, “Really, Molly? Really?” I mean, seriously, what was I thinking?
First off, I have a dog and a cat – but not just any dog and cat. No, I have a black Lab and a black and white long-haired cat. Two black animals who love sleeping on the furniture.
Then there’s the food thing. I have a breakfast bar, but I don’t have chairs or bar stools yet, so dinner is eaten on the deck or, more often because of the rain, in the living room. Knowing how I am, I usually sit in my chair – a nice, neutral green chair. No worries.
But last night a friend came over for a light dinner and to see the new place. And we had wine.
Red wine.
And my friend sat in the green chair.
“I hope you don’t mind, but if someone is going to spill wine on your white loveseat, I’d prefer it be you.”
So there I sat, wine glass in one hand, my plate of grapes and cheeses and bread on my lap. Ceili, my obnoxious two-year-old Lab, was in high spirits because we had a guest and she needed to show off – so add a bouncing 75-pound dog to the situation.
And yet …
Two glasses of wine and a small bowl of salsa later – and the love seat is still white. Not one drop spilled. Not even any close calls.
Maybe that means that by 50, I’ve finally got this white thing handled.
I’m grown-up.
New aches and pains. I’ve always been a clutz and had my first serious knee injury when I was 10. Still, excruciating pain in my left knee last fall kept me from work some days, made getting around with the dog absolutely horrible, and made it next to impossible to sleep through the night. I went to the doctor expecting a torn meniscus and was right – but also have osteoarthritis so bad that fixing the meniscus would be moot. Lovely.
I’ve thought a lot about that conversation since. This woman isn’t much older than me, but lives with her 30-year-old son, his girlfriend and their two small children. The younger woman is expecting a third child in the fall. In the six or so months I’ve known them, the three adults have been in various stages of employment, sharing one car. I’ve given rides and been asked for small “loans” I know will never be repaid. They struggle, but they’re decent people (aside from the constant pot smoking by the son – which is only annoying because the smell is rank and filtered into my apartment).
Pour Me Some Whine 