Every once in a while, one of my articles of clothing sacrifices itself to save me.

In 1982, a silk dress took the road burn that should have scraped my backside raw when I landed after catapulting off that windshield.

Five years later, the green 1940’s shirtwaist which I had worn at my mother’s funeral absorbed the odors of an autopsy and let me shed the smell of it when I stripped in the shower.

I huddled under a Hudson Bay coat (three stripe) one January night when my car broke down, and I waited 45 minutes for AAA, then stood in the pelting sleet while they connected the dead vehicle to the back of the tow truck.  It took an hour for the ice to melt from that coat, and I never could get the greyness from it, not in several trips to the dry cleaner.

Today my legs and skinny bottom found protection from gravel and heat as I scooted across the driveway in my sundress.  I had gotten the bright idea to move the soaker hose while walking from the car to the house.  Pulling myself  to the neighbor’s back stairs and hauling myself vertical took fifteen harrowing minutes.  The dress might be salvageable, but I’m not sure I could wear it again.

I’m padding around the house in a purple camisole, little shorts, and bare feet.  I’m kicking myself for not going out to Mar-Beck’s to get a new filter for the A/C, or calling the company for its annual service.  But nothing broke; the only damage seems to be a few gathers in my sweat-drenched dress and slight abrasions on my right hand and elbow.

It’s the afternoon of the tenth day of the thirtieth month of My Year Without Complaining.  I really, truly, absolutely, positively, am not complaining.  My blessed and lucky life continues.