A rap on the door startled me from the slumber which I did not realize had overcome me. I darted a glance to the only timepiece in the room, my cell phone. I had been asleep for nearly an hour. What possessed me to host two functions in one weekend? I muttered, as I struggled to my feet from the low couch — the comfortable couch — and made my way to the door, shushing the dog in the process.
Brenda Dingley stood at the door bearing gifts. A magneted notepad such as I had admired in her home; and magnets for securing business cards to the refrigerator. I was out walking, she said. I planned to leave them in your mailbox.
We sat talking — about my upcoming trip; about the next art show at Suite 100; and about memories, some pleasant, some not. I told her, Right before I fell asleep, I contemplated going out to get some food. And quick as a wink, off we went, in Brenda’s little car, to Chai Shai for pakoras and other delectable fare.
Towards the end of dinner, Brenda mentioned that she had a shawl that she no longer wore, which she’d like to give me. Oh good! I chortled. “Shawl” is on my packing list! I have shawls, but one can never have too many and a new shawl is like the first sip from a cold can of soda — delicious, perfect, satisfying. We drove the extra block past my house to hers, and out from the house she came with this gorgeous, soft, rich shawl. I bought it at the Great Wall of China, Brenda explained.
I held it up to my face and breathed. But don’t you want it? She shrugged, putting the car in reverse. I don’t use it much anymore. And it just looks like something you would wear.
Some people get me.
It’s 6:15 a.m. and I have a court appearance in two hours. I have not finished laundry nor have I packed or cleaned out the refrigerator. I still have to create and order the title sheets for the March 4th show, and client appointments fill the last sixteen work hours before my flight west. At 4:15 a.m. on Wednesday, I will board a Super Shuttle in front of Pat Reynold’s house, at which I am staying Tuesday night and where I will leave the Prius during my trip to California so the house-sitters can park in my space out back. Between now and then, I will probably run myself to a frazzle. I will sleep well on the plane.
It’s the twenty-second day of the twenty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
