Remember the post about my “I Still Gotta” list and how I try to keep that list as small as possible? I feel it necessary to report that yesterday one of the items that didn’t make it to the list came back to bite me, or, more precisely, stab me.
There is a hole in the lining of my coat that I haven’t bothered to mend. Occasionally, I have to stick my hand through the hole and fish out loose change that’s fallen by the hem. I didn’t realize that a pen had slipped through the hole, too. As I was crossing the street, the pen got jammed between my legs and stabbed me in both thighs. The business end actually made me bleed. Besides the danger to my person from doubling over in pain in the middle of a downtown intersection, there was my wounded pride to confront. I am sure I looked like a crazy idiot, flailing and cursing in the street. As I limped to my office building I scolded myself; am I so incapable of handling all the little details in life that I can’t find the time to stitch a pocket lining?
A day later, I have come to my senses again. There is now a bruise above my right knee where the sharp end of the deadly Bic stabbed me. Did I sew up the pocket when I got home? I did not. I visited the chickens and read a stack of stories with my daughter. I don’t need the stress involved in becoming the Woman With No Holes in Her Clothes. It’s worth the occasional puncture wound for a (slightly) more carefree existence.