When You Get a Text that Makes You Match Socks
But I can't bring myself to throw out the matchless "homeless" ones. So in my dumbfounded state, I went so far as to paw through his sock drawer, in a search based on false hope; I always match up those pairs that do make it whole out of the dryer. I was wasting precious time on a pointless endeavor. But I'd been rocked off course from the daily productive to-do sticky-note list.
Instead, I would contemplate a very old argyle sock:
This sock has been in the basket now going on three years. Its mate never has been found. Still. There might be hope.
For the sock. Not for my day. Later, I would find the to-do sticky still stuck to the kitchen counter and be reminded of all the things I didn't get done. I would not get the vacuuming done. I would not get the laundry done. I would forget to go the bank. I would even forget to pick my boys up from an fifteen-minute early dismissal -- to be met by fearful little faces white as sheets as if I'd been eaten by a raging bear. "We've been waiting a thousand hours," my youngest whined. Behind him the school aide gave me a forgiving smile. Thank god. For forgiveness.
On the upside to that down-sided day, I did remember their dental appointments, and found some relief in gazing into the waiting-room fish-tank; I enjoyed most the carefree angelfish, though identified better with the sluggish catfish scuffling along the bottom.
I did receive a follow up message from "I quit" text bubbler to say that my mother had just pissed her off, but she loves her too much to really quit. There is truth in that and in her true devotion to their quirky relationship. And I am grateful.
But I did text back: "Please do not quit in a text." For heaven or hell's sake, at least do it in a voicemail. Those BUBBLES. Pop them all.