Yesterday I stepped into my little car outside our little house, drove about five miles, got out of my little car, and stepped into chaos. My place of employment was closed for the day, and we had to count every piece of clothing, every screw and nail, and every loose pin in the store. It was inventory day.
The shop where I work isn’t that big. Okay, it’s not that small either. A fairly typical store. But as we became painfully aware yesterday, it does contain a lot of stuff because I spent about ten hours, over-time yay, counting things. I know the exact number of sock-packages in that place now.
When I got back into my little car very late in the evening, and drove the few miles back home, and then stepped into our little house, I just wanted to lie down among the shoes in a foetal position and never get up again. Unfortunately my so-called husband would have none of that.
I think that was very unfair and inconsiderate of him. What does it matter if I lie among the shoes by the front door forever, with a dog or two for company? It’s not like it would impact his life in any way – at least he would know where to find me, and he would not have to ring me because I forgot to let him know I’d be late because of inventory day.
Today I get no rest though, because we’re going to a birthday party. Someone in the circle of acquaintances is leaving the teenage years for the status of being a twenty-something. It should be a fairly quiet thing, and not a wild and exuberant explosion of post-teenage angst. Maybe I should make jokes about impending middle age crises?
However, before that I’ll have to suffer a trip down town because Mark became convinced that he had nothing to wear for the party and wanted to get a new pair of trousers. I can look forward to an interminable time of going from clothes rack to clothes rack. When I suggested I’d let him do that himself, he wanted none of it.