Memoirs of a Miser

Here is a sad story.

Mary Beth discouraged me from sharing this story. It is so sad that it makes her feel, as she put it, "sick." I suspect what she experiences is that heart-dropping-into-your-stomach feeling you get when you are reminded of something massively unpleasant. I know because I get the same feeling sometimes. It is a very sad story.

One day in early December I went out to buy a pair of leather gloves. My objective was leather gloves and leather gloves only. I had never owned a pair of sturdy leather gloves and, being that my hands are almost always cold, especially in December when the rest of me is almost always cold along with them, having to shove my hands in my pockets every time I ventured outdoors was putting said gloves constantly in the front of my thoughts.

When I buy something that I can wear, I take great care in making sure it is the best I can afford. Even before the Great Glove Day, I had been out numerous times eliminating any cheap alternatives that might have blurred my budgeted mind. I also saved money for a bit so this excursion could be considered a "splurge." (I never splurge.)

The gloves on my mind that day were from Banana Republic. It was the greatest purchase I had made in a long time. Expensive enough that they were worth it. Black leather. Unadorned. Timeless. Beautiful. I felt classy just putting them on.

I never knew such a luxury as warm hands. After that I never went outside without them. I made sure I knew their whereabouts before I even considered whether or not I had a coat to put on. I took care of them. I kept them in my pocketbook when I didn't need them, so they would never be lost.

Then happened the Fatal Night.

I worked until closing. My sister came to pick me up. At this time we still lived in the yellow house a few miles away from my store. When I got in the car I took my gloves off absentmindedly and put them into my pocketbook. Or so I thought...

The next day I had to leave for the bus stop in a hurry. I checked my purse for my gloves, but they were gone. I thought perhaps I had removed them the night before (often I find myself, for no reason whatsoever, moving an object from one place to another. People say this is a symptom of obsessive compulsive disorder), but they were in none of the places I usually put things, and I did not have time to conduct a proper search. I left without them.

All day at work I thought and thought about where I could have put my leather gloves. In my mind I retraced my steps from the night before. Left store wearing gloves. Got into car wearing gloves. Took gloves off in car. Climbed out of car. Entered house. No more gloves!

Realization struck. My stomach dropped as I remembered that the gloves had sat in my lap during that car ride, not in my purse as I supposed. They must have fallen to the ground when I unfolded myself from the seat and stood. It was the only explanation. They must still be on the ground then, I thought, unless someone has taken them! This piece of the puzzle was resolved and for the rest of the day I itched to get home and rescue them.

That evening my sister again gave me a ride home. She gave me hope when I related my woes to her; apparently she had seen the gloves on the ground that morning, but left them there thinking they belonged to some other cold-handed soul. Then they may still be there, I thought. It had snowed the night before, and some of that day, and when I got home the ground was coated. Nevertheless I searched, digging and kicking up snow in my efforts to reclaim my prized leather gloves. But the search resulted in nothing.

We went inside and I shared my loss with our two other roommates, both of whom saw the gloves lying in the yard that day, but neither of whom picked them up, for the same reason Mary Beth didn't. Those were good leather gloves, and by now they were long gone. Someone stole my gloves off my own lawn. I had to shut myself in my room for a little while. I felt like someone who's just had his pocket picked of something dear and valuable.

Mary Beth doesn't like me to tell this story because she feels partly to blame. "I should have just picked them up," she kept saying. But I do hope she doesn't still beat herself up, because I am not upset with her or anyone (aside from myself, a little, for being so careless). I just hope whoever nabbed those gloves off the grass needed them more than I do, because as long as that's the case, I don't really mind making room in my pockets for my hands.

Is It Spring Yet?

See title.