Did I mention my recent experience with utter humiliation?
A few weeks ago we vacationed at Long Beach, Washington for eight nights. However, my husband and two of his college buddies had to leave the ocean after two nights. One of the buddies needed to return to Bellingham to work and the other needed to fly home (stand-by) on Alaskan Airlines. The Bellingham guy dropped off my husband at our home, then continued on with the Alaskan airlines guy to the airport.
Alas, the Alaskan airlines guy couldn’t get on a flight that night, so Bellingham guy called my husband who met him halfway and transferred Alaskan airlines guy to my husband’s custody before traveling north up I-5 to his home.
That was a little confusing, but important to the plot of this story.
Remember, I’m at the ocean with my four children while my husband is back at our house. (He caught a ride with Bellingham buddy because he needed to participate in a charity golf tournament on Tuesday and an important work meeting on Wednesday. He and Bellingham guy were going to return to the ocean–and their respective family vacations–Wednesday night.)
So, I’m at the ocean and now . . . Alaskan airlines guy is at my house with my husband.
When I leave for a vacation, I always try to leave my house in respectable condition. However, right before this vacation, I worked 21 hours in two days, laundered all the laundry, packed provisions for meals and endured a crisis that I cannot bear to speak about. (Hint: teenagers, lost item, injustice in the world, tantrum, enough said.) So, having worked on Thursday from 8 a.m. until midnight with two short breaks between shifts, I did not get my house as clean as I’d hoped.
For instance, my bathroom sink was coated with the scummy remains of shaving cream. The master bathroom toilet was unscrubbed. Piles of unironed clothes and discarded outfits sat on top of the exercise bike. Underneath the exercise bike were overflow books without permanent homes on the bookshelves. . . plus more. (An empty purse, 10-pound weights, an old newspaper, an empty shoebox, for instance.)
The room was cluttered and certainly not fit for company. The kitchen floor was unmopped, every wooden surface was dusty. As a matter of fact, it sort of looked like we’d packed in a hurry, then been Raptured without expecting ever to return. Thus, the yellowed newspapers on the front porch. (Who has time to read the newspaper? And do you know how difficult it is to cancel a newspaper? They pretty much say, “No,” when you try.)
And when our friend couldn’t get a flight, he stayed at our house for two nights.
That is mortification. Also, motivation to deal with the under-exercise-bike piles and closet. I even vacuumed my ceiling.
I did learn something from this experience. Mortification will not kill you. Who knew.
(Does anyone else store a collection of cassette tapes underneath their bed? What is wrong with me?)
What’s under your bed? Come on: Group participation! You know you want to leave a comment!