It’s been five months since my last blog post and even longer since I’ve acknowledged the truth that I don’t have what it takes to produce quality writing on a regular basis (I use the term quality liberally) and quit my day job.
But something happened that made me want to write. It wasn’t the thrill of seeing Top Gun (twice in the theatre).
It wasn’t the shock that I heeded my own advice from January and included some marking time into my end of semester planning, thereby allowing me to finish my semester end grading with the least stress ever since I was a teacher on call in 1999.
And it wasn’t the sheer joy of receiving the news that my newly prescribed orthotics arrived two weeks ahead of schedule, thereby allowing me to start retraining my body to begin walking in a less destructive manner before we left for our summer pilgrimage to Flin Flon (though I suspect I might be the most excited wearer of orthotics, and will attempt to be the most religious of stretchers this summer).
No, none of these things inspired more than a passing anecdote in conversation or a few sentences in Facebook. Until this — something not even the glory of purchasing a second properly fitting bra could eclipse. (Note to self: no pictures here).
On Thursday, July 30, the last day of school, I was taking a break from celebratory wine and crib, to change the bedding on all three beds. As I stripped the first bed, and made it up again, I reflected on my success as an adult human and the fact that I am now part of the elite percent that own enough bedding to both strip and immediately remake three beds: I own enough bedding to leave the sheets to wash another time! No longer slave to the tyranny of the buzzer, to remember to move a single set of sheets from bed to washer to dryer and back to the bed before retiring at night. Gone are the days of naively heading to bed only to discover the only bedding is still in the washer. While I am humbled by being short one King Size duvet cover, I remain awestruck to have finally reached this pinnacle of domestic success.
And in the midst of my reflection, I made an even more astounding discovery. As I flipped out the newest of my sheet set collection, beginning the ancient game of “which side is the long side”, I noted the simple label on the fitted sheet: top or bottom. Is this one of the wondrous inventions of the 21st century or perhaps something that I am now privilege to by having bumped up my sheet budget by $20? Either way, I feel like I have tasted the glory of success.
While my body suffers the slings of age and posture, I will go to sleep dreaming of the bright land of the future and of buying more of these luxurious sheets.
