We did Date Night With Friends Saturday night. We met at a centrum and inhaled popcorn (Not me. That stuff will kill you.) while Tom Cruise, I mean Ethan Hunt, scaled the exterior glass wall of the mother of all skyscraper hotels, as the mother of all sandstorms approached, using only his feet for purchase, and a pair of electronic suction hand gloves. If anything, this action/adventure/thriller is about how to complete the mission when technology fails. Good times.
I wanted those gloves.
I needed those gloves.
My gloves were MIA.
This happens to me all the time. I have a box of single gloves. Don’t know why I’m keeping them. Maybe I think the glove fairy will show up with the matching gloves.
We needed cash for the show. The most expedient thing to do was hit the drive-through bank en route. As we approached the window, Mr. G, honey hit the button for the driver’s window. It bzzzzed down about half an inch and whined about how frrrreakin’ cold it was outside.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just jump out and run up to the drive-through window. It’s all good.”
So I did. I finger-waved to the little camera guy just to be friendly. I live in Canadaland, ya know.
I jumped back in the car and we sped away within the suggested speed limit. I swears!
Mr. G: Oops, what?
Me: I think my gloves are in the drive-through lane.
Mr. G: (Sigh) Check the floor.
Me: Nope. I’m pretty sure they’re in the drive-through lane.
Mr. G: (Sigh) Check your purse.
Me: Nope. I’m pretty sure…
Mr. G: (Sigh) Okay.We’ll go back.
Me: No time.
Mr. G: (Siiiigh) We’ll make a quick check on the way back tonight.
See. I’m one of those people. One of those people who take their gloves off in the car, in the restaurant, in the theater, in the… set them on their laps, on the table, on the bar, on the… and promptly walk away.
The special people.
People with a fat glove budget.
People with a box of single gloves.
People with no gloves.
In the car, I mostly lose one glove, so we know where I mostly lose my gloves. Yup.
After the IMF completed their mission impossible, and after a large skim milk cappuccino with cinnamon (that kept me up until 5:30 in the morning), we sped back to the drive-through-house-of-money where Mr. G, honey crept up the circular drive while I kept my eyes peeled for thin, black leather gloves.
If it hadn’t been for the fingers, I never would have spotted them. Oh, where was my camera! They were side by side, and less than pancake thin, and snow-covered, and riddled with tire tread.
The treaded dead.
It was a horror.
I need these ~
Not for signing, not for safety, not for clubbing, not for…
I need them so that I can spot my gloves in my lap, or across the road, or on the exterior glass wall of the mother of all skyscraper hotels .
I need them so my gloves don’t become the treaded dead.
It’s not pretty.
Image courtesy of The Glow Company here.