It ain’t over till it’s over
Judy Conlin
I’m sure you remember me talking about my shiny red toaster that I got years ago. If you don’t, you are not the faithful reader that I believed you to be. I will refresh your memory.
Years ago, I bought a shiny red toaster that amazed me. When I put those first slices of lovely rye bread into its slots and pushed the handle, I was not prepared for what happened next. When that toaster popped, it threw that toast clear across the room. I think it would have buttered it for me if I could have accurately calculated the placement of the butter dish, but I was never very good at math.
As time went on, the shooting range of my toaster’s reach steadily decreased, causing many adjustments in its placement on my counter. It seemed to me that the toaster and I were deteriorating with age together, and I did not choose to chastise it for its lesser performance because I knew what it felt like to no longer perform as I had in the past.
Eventually, the toaster did not throw its toast at all, and I gave up square dancing. It was a bit sad, but time marches on. I still had toast for breakfast, and I still performed in theater. We were both slowing down, which was age-appropriate. We have gone along like this for quite a while, realizing that nothing lasts forever.
I was congratulating myself on having such a good attitude about aging when a funny thing happened the other morning. I put my lovely rye bread in the toaster slots and went to prepare my eggs. Just as those eggs were cooking to the perfect consistency, I heard a terrible, ghastly moaning sound. At that exact moment, two perfectly toasted pieces of rye flew into the air and made a water landing in the dishpan of dirty dishes.
You can bet I was surprised, but I didn’t know how to react.
Should I congratulate the red beauty on her daring-do feat, or should I call a toaster doctor to try to fix what had caused her so much pain? The sound of that excruciating moan lingered in my head. I could see that her internal wires were sagging from the effort, but her exterior was shining ever brighter with pride. It was a dilemma.
There was also another dilemma. There was no way those two products of her miracle pop were now edible. No one wants sodden toast topped with dishwater, suds and scum. I still had those lovely eggs waiting for me, but no one can eat eggs without toast. I was in a bind, and I knew it.
Nurse Judy, my impish alter ego, was lurking nearby.
“Got a problem?” she asked with a smirk.
“No, no,” I assured her. “The toaster had a little problem. That’s all. Now I need some toast.”
“Well, put some bread in the toaster and make some,” she said.
“Oh, I can’t,” I said. “She made such a big effort that she hurt herself. This might kill her.”
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” she said. (She does latch onto someone else’s quotes.) “Remember when someone at the Moose asked you to dance and you could hardly walk? Well, you danced and twirled and amazed yourself, but you were in agony afterward. You also bragged about that forever. Let the toaster have her moment and make yourself some toast.”
I did what she said, and Red Beauty popped up my toast right into the toaster. But I think she had a smile on her face.
We oldsters do have our pride, you know.
More later,
Judy
