All kinds of thoughts stream through your head while you’re high up on the ladder painting a side of the house. In an old top. One that’s had a life. The one in the picture here is such a top. I remember when . . .
I stood in Penney’s thinking how pretty it was there in the display with several others of similar design. Karen and I were out shopping again. I found my size and pulled it out. She liked it, too.The flower pattern splashed across the front and silver threads witnessed to its fashionable nature. Bling was really coming into its own and I wanted to be “trendy”. Yeah, even us old gals like that.
But it was a bit more pricey than this frugal chick usually considers. Still . . . I thought of all the coordination possibilities. Black, gray, tan and denim. It would pair up nicely with all of them. White shorts? Perfect. Silver jewelry? Awesome. Upcoming summer barbeques, out to the restaurants. Excellent. I could go on and on. You know I bought it. I’ll call her Sylvia.
So then – the cute new top must be debuted, right? Probably at church with the black pants and a short sleeved black sweater, heart silver earrings and black shoes. Ah, so lovely. And it felt good every time I wore it for a number of years, maybe two.
As time went on, I bought other tops. Hid them from my beautiful Sylvia with the silver threads. Downgraded her. Didn’t always choose her first when outfitting for the day. Loved her a little less. I still felt good when I wore her, but now she was a grocery shopping top. Or picking up our granddaughter at pre-school apparel.
And then, this summer, I grabbed her (don’t gasp now) to wear up on the ladder to paint. I figured someone might come along, see me toiling up there and maybe the silver threads would distract them from the sweat dripping into my eyebrows. NOT a pretty sight. But Sylvia still was.
So wouldn’t you know it. I leaned in a bit too close to the paint can and Blammo! I got paint on Sylvia. Right smack in the rib cage area. At first it didn’t bother me. Then I remembered how pleased our granddaughter Anna had been when she realized Grandma could pick out a halfway decent top after all. How perfect it was with the white shorts at the lake last summer. Remorse set in. So I scurried off the ladder, ran into the kitchen, tore Sylvia from my tortured body (remorse makes me a drama queen) and scrubbed the paint from her, apologizing profusely as I did it.
The paint came out. Whew! Sylvia was washed, dried and hung back up in the closet later that day. I may return her to grocery shopping status. I’ll wait until there’s a conspicuous hole somewhere before she’s downgraded again possibly to cleaning rag. Please don’t let her know!
I understand now you have to be loyal to your best tops. I don’t know what I was thinking making her go up that ladder with me.