I decided it was time to chuck out this wee little dish rag that has faithfully served me lo, these many years, or since the early 2000s. If you know me at all, it should come as no surprise that this silly picture screams METAPHOR for MARRIED LIFE.
I'll try not to belabor the point, but isn't that the way we start out? We forge into coupledom armed with good intentions and a registry wand, carefully debating the color schemes for our wedding, and in extension the beautiful life we will be building. Linens, china, and my own personal Waterloo, dye-able bridesmaid shoes.
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| Say no to the dyeable. |
(A word to young brides of the '10s: before there was chalkboard art and turquoise pumps, there were dye-ables. Pink dye-ables, in my case. Don't sweat the Pinterest board. The dye-ables didn't break me; don't let the choreographed first dance break you.)
It is fine and good to having a pretty wedding and heavens knows I love a good one. But as my dish rag will attest, the rubber meets the road soon enough. The good china gets knicked, the towels get caught and rip in the dryer; the waistlines stretch, the hair recedes, the shiny and new becomes old and familiar. The wispy dreams become ordinary reality, and you sometimes don't recognize that girl you used to be.
That girl had lots and lots of optimism. Pages and pages of earnest prayers. Years and years of Sunday school lessons and youth trips and singles retreats.
She had hour upon hour of free time, dollar upon dollar of disposable income, outfit upon outfit in a single digit dress size.
This, well, grown-up woman, has lunch upon lunch to pack, basket upon basket of laundry to run, event upon event to schedule.
Face upon face to kiss, hug upon hug to steal, laugh upon laugh to share.
So, yeah. I enjoyed the fresh kitchen linen years.
But the holey, faded, rag-tag ones are sacred. Because they are more real.
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