Saturday, January 31, 2009

Take from me. . . my lace

Inspired by many of the short stories and excellent posts I have recently read (have you checked out Irish Gumbo ????) I thought I'd give some serious writing a try. . .

The early morning mist had barely risen past the rim of her coffee cup as she paddled down the basement steps - each one less forgiving than the one before. An unknowing listener might think her step light, but she alone knew just how heavy her heart had become. For she was about to begin another day in a life that sometimes hurt just to live it. . . . a life so mundane and dreary, even her wardrobe screamed to be released.

Unaware of the resignation in her step, she approached the clothes dryer in search of her day's attire. Once there, she methodically folded the palates of her everyday existence - the blacks . . . the browns. . . the burgundies of her life - when suddenly a strange light flashed through the material.

"Damn it!" she cried. "Don't tell me I ripped those black pants again!"

But as she held the offending article up for inspection, she discovered that those rays of light were not streaming through unwanted openings. No, these holes were in a distinct and beautiful pattern. It was lace! A texture memorable to her touch. . . familiar to her skin . . . yet long ago forgotten.

How had this small piece of black lace found it's way through the universe only to become intertwined with her clothing? Had some great cosmic static-cling storm caused it to land amid her possessions? And, more importantly, what was the meaning behind its arrival? Was it a harbinger sent to lift her from the monotony of her life? To reawaken her long-sleeping sensuality? To remind her of her solidarity with all of femalehood?

And so she held that tangible sign of hope . . . caressing her cheek with the subtle coarseness of the fabric, until. . . .

Until. . .

Well, until . . . she discovered a tag that read Victoria's Secret . . .


This wasn't merely a piece of lace. It was a THONG. . . and a size XS thong at that!!!!

And suddenly she was no longer wondering how that lace had found it's way through the universe and into her clothes dryer. The only question remaining was: Which one of her teenage daughters had used that dryer before she did???

And what should she do with this tangible piece of evidence? Confront her offspring? Show her husband? Dangle the offending article from the kitchen chandelier until the hussy confessed? Or should she do nothing. . . waiting to see which one of her three daughters would begin to develop a look of utter desperation as Saturday night approached????

And so she smiled, quietly tucking the garment into her bathrobe pocket, and - for the first time in weeks - ascended the stairs with a spring in her step.

p.s. The woman in the story could never be me because. . . because. . . well because, my washer and dryer are not in the basement!