Last night our evening was almost ruined by a pair of gloves. Or I should say, one glove.
We had set out to a neighboring town for the Christmas tree lighting ceremony when right before entering the train, the significant other realized he was missing a glove.
I was able to pull him into the train a fraction of a second before the train whistle signalled its departure from the station.
Still dizzy from the adrenaline, and feeling much like Jason Bourne, I
screamed asked him what the problem was, only to be told that he had lost a glove.
He then suggested we get off at the next station and make our way back home so that he could look for it.
Are you kidding me? But no, ladies, the man was dead serious.
Like a psychiatrist addressing a mental patient, I
hysterically calmly explained that night had already set in and that there was no chance that anyone would bother to stop to pick up his glove and steal away with it into the night.
However, he would have none of it.
calmly hysterically explained that he had purchased the gloves twenty five years ago with his first pay check.
This explanation, instead of helping me understand the situation, only served to make it worse.
I mean, he was seriously thinking of ending our evening to go on the quest to find the missing glove, that for the record, was not a Hermes, but instead, a ratty, discolored, smelly glove he had owned for the last twenty five years?
I was bewidered, to say the least.
But again, this time like a mother who
patronizes placates her child I pleaded, “Honey, it’s not like it’s going anywhere. You’ll see. It will be waiting exactly where you dropped it and we’ll get it on our way back.”
Fast forward three hours later and we’re standing in the middle of the road looking for a ratty, black glove that should have been thrown out twenty four years ago.
(Have I mentioned that this is the same man that has a brand new pair of cashmere lined leather gloves I bought him seven years ago but hasn’t worn them because his old gloves
are were still good?)
As far as I was concerned, this was the universe’s way of telling him it was time to retire the old pair but instead, he was ready to put out an alert.
We searched the bushes, the hedges, the street, the tram tracks, peered into trashcans, asked people standing at the bus stop if they had seen it, but all to no avail.
It was as if the glove didn’t want to be found.
Through the process, I tried to keep a straight face at his state of distress. I simply could not understand his attachement to a material item, let alone an old one.
Needless to say, we never found the glove.
As he dragged his feet home, he seemed like a child who had lost his favorite toy.
After we took our coats off, I noticed he put away the remainding glove in the usual storage area.
I asked him why he wasn’t throwing it away and his answer was, if you can believe it, “What if the other one shows up?”
Really? Are you kidding me?
He lovingly stroked the glove and said, “We’ll keep you just in case.”
I stepped in and said, “No we won’t. Game over. Your partner has gone missing in action and for all we know he is currently being held for ransom. It’s time to move on.” And I threw it away.
This morning I got up as the significant other left the house.
I walked over to the storage cupboard and peered inside and just like you’re suspecting, the one glove had again been lovingly placed in its usual place.
For some reason, l left it there. For all of two seconds. Then I dumped it.