About four weeks ago, I lost one of my favorite gloves – one of those fantastic transvestite breeds that couldn’t quite decide if it was a glove or a mitten. It was buttoned and black and pretty much the coolest apparel item I have ever purchased for less than $10 in my entire life.
Losing it was a very, very sad occasion not only because I was immediately less trendy, but also because A) It was the middle of winter and my fingers were immediately stranded in loneliness and sub-zero degree temperatures, B) I only had one pair of gloves to begin with so no other pair could pinch hit, and C) I am my father’s daughter and do not believe I should get new things when I’ve been irresponsible with my old ones. For the rest of winter, I knew I’d be putting myself in glove timeout, showing my freezing fingers that they could no longer be so lax with their knitted homes.
For weeks after the loss, the other glove was so upset that it sat on my counter without its twin, crying for very long, awkward stretches of time. Every time I walked into the kitchen to do something like eat an apple or boil a crab, I immediately became distracted by the wailing transvestite glove. I wanted so desperately to find it a replacement. Like those parents who buy substitute goldfish for their children before they notice Flipper has prematurely floated to the surface. But my glove was special. It was a mix breed. Half cashmere, half cotton. And it had been purchased at an outlet – where items go when their species is dwindling. To find a replacement would simply be silly. Impossible even. Only the real thing would do and the real thing was likely, at that point, suffering a slow, severe death on a street corner next to druggies and homeless, grocery-cart pushing men. I knew I had to bury the lone glove in the junk drawer and move on.
Losing it was a very, very sad occasion not only because I was immediately less trendy, but also because A) It was the middle of winter and my fingers were immediately stranded in loneliness and sub-zero degree temperatures, B) I only had one pair of gloves to begin with so no other pair could pinch hit, and C) I am my father’s daughter and do not believe I should get new things when I’ve been irresponsible with my old ones. For the rest of winter, I knew I’d be putting myself in glove timeout, showing my freezing fingers that they could no longer be so lax with their knitted homes.
For weeks after the loss, the other glove was so upset that it sat on my counter without its twin, crying for very long, awkward stretches of time. Every time I walked into the kitchen to do something like eat an apple or boil a crab, I immediately became distracted by the wailing transvestite glove. I wanted so desperately to find it a replacement. Like those parents who buy substitute goldfish for their children before they notice Flipper has prematurely floated to the surface. But my glove was special. It was a mix breed. Half cashmere, half cotton. And it had been purchased at an outlet – where items go when their species is dwindling. To find a replacement would simply be silly. Impossible even. Only the real thing would do and the real thing was likely, at that point, suffering a slow, severe death on a street corner next to druggies and homeless, grocery-cart pushing men. I knew I had to bury the lone glove in the junk drawer and move on.
Oh me of little faith.
This morning, long after I had stashed all hopes aside in a drawer with receipts, matchboxes and un-retractable measuring tape, something incredible happened. I was walking outside in the drizzly morning, carrying a large, heavy box to set in the front seat of my car, when - klutz that I am - I dropped my keys in the raining street. Bending awkwardly down like a pregnant woman to pick them up, I saw something peculiar. And yet so familiar. There underneath the tire of my car, next to my freshly dropped keys, was a very soggy, very lonely, very frostbitten glove that looked as though it had been in a UFC fight with a tree branch. There was no mistaking it. It was my long lost friend. I felt like screaming with excitement.
Welcome home prodigal son!
I took the glove very carefully inside, being sure not to further upset any internal injuries it suffered during its stay in the elements, and immediately gave it a hot bath to remove it's newly acquired accessories of tree bark and leaves. It took to the bath very kindly and is currently resting, being visited by its long lost twin that is thrilled to see it come home. Whether or not the glove will make a full recovery is yet to be determined. It suffered severe emotional and physical distress and will likely need extensive therapy over the coming months. But I am hopeful that by next winter season, it will once again be fully operational as a transvestite winter apparel item that serves as a knitted home for my hands. Frostbitten fingers crossed.
Welcome home prodigal son!
I took the glove very carefully inside, being sure not to further upset any internal injuries it suffered during its stay in the elements, and immediately gave it a hot bath to remove it's newly acquired accessories of tree bark and leaves. It took to the bath very kindly and is currently resting, being visited by its long lost twin that is thrilled to see it come home. Whether or not the glove will make a full recovery is yet to be determined. It suffered severe emotional and physical distress and will likely need extensive therapy over the coming months. But I am hopeful that by next winter season, it will once again be fully operational as a transvestite winter apparel item that serves as a knitted home for my hands. Frostbitten fingers crossed.
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