I believe in my last post I celebrated the magic of boys. This post is not a retraction, exactly; it’s more of a warning shot across your bow (you’re welcome.)
I started pondering when Mombabe et all, mentioned that their homes bear the physical manifestations of boy-dom. My house does bear the markings of territory, but so do my car, my things, my wardrobe, even my very own corpus.
I left the house this morning in a very cute cashmere and wool green sweater. I very much love this sweater with its side buttons and perfect fit. The morning had not yet elapsed when I ended up with two new holes: one on my right forearm from El Guille’s impatient pant zipper, and the other on my left elbow from El Guille’s car seat.
I am alternately horrified, as Stacy and Clinton would expect me to be walking around with holes in my clothes, and resigned that my fine things, my beautiful raiment, will meet the dust sooner rather than later. I have stitched up my clothes before and it appears I will be doing it again. Of course, I’m going to forget, fold up the sweater, put it away, and pull it out one morning when I am late, late, late and realize, yet again, that the sweater still has its holes and I need to make the choice whether or not to spend 10 minutes stitching or 10 minutes trying to find something else to wear.
Dear Self, Just do it tonight, OK?
My house, and all the things in it, suffers endlessly. For instance, the old cable box hole in our wall (which you might remember from this) has been covered with a plate for two years now. Well, covered until recently when 10 month old Proximo managed to get his chubby fingers under the plate, and broke off a piece (I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it has to do with earth’s yellow sun.) El Guille took this as his chance to start shoving objects into the hole. Alright, not just objects, spoons. My spoons. He has significantly reduced the spoon count to the point where we have to wash spoons multiple times a day. "WHY would you do that?" I asked.
“Because I wanted to see what would happen.”
There’s my coffee table. Yes, the surface used to be smooth. Our chairs which were destroyed because there are crocodiles on our carpet. Leaping from chair to chair summarily ruined the cool retro pedestals,permanently knocking the seats out of alignment. We had to actually put legs on our chairs (how pedestrian, I know.)This is my lamp. I have a matching set. Wait, I had a matching set. I had to replace the shade on one, and on this one? Well, I think the picture speaks for itself.
All my nice things, all my lovely, sentimental items, everything is in the wrecking path. My jewelry--I've lost more necklaces in the past six months than in all my previous decades (pirates.) My makeup, lotions, imported chocolates, lipstick on 400 thread count sheets; I think there is no end. The zen part of me realizes that these are just things, just objects, they don't really mean anything. However, sometimes, you just look at your spilled bottle of Chanel and a few tears have to fall. The most final damage is the one that I am most happy about: the pleasing ruin of your body. That's the sacrifice that I am most willing to donate to the cause.
But the sheets?
Come on, leave me the sheets.