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Dear Reader,
My husband loves it when I spill food on my shirt, because for years he was the slob. It was one of his amusing trademarks. He never seemed to notice, but I could spot lunch leftovers on his shirt, from way across the room. But now the table has turned. If I want to know what we ate for lunch, I look down at my own shirt. Today's menu: Cream of tomato soup, (yep and there's the orange smudge to prove it) and that Dove Bar I tried to secretly eat for dessert, a sliver of chocolate makes a huge statement on a light blue, dry clean only blouse.
Even when I caution myself, "Be careful, you're an adult, eat slowly and you won't spill anything," that reminder apparently isn't anymore meaningful than when I'm wearing good shoes, decide to pull a few weeds and twenty minutes later my flower garden looks pristine, but my shoes are ruined. I really should change my shoes and I really should eat slower--but I never listen. After all, I'm only going to pull a 'few' weeds--but we all know that never happens. And there-in lies the answer to why even though I ate today's lunch with the best of intentions, it ended up on my shirt anyway.
The worst part about being a lunch slob is I'm never the first person to notice. It doesn't really bother me when my husband gets that silly grin on his face and points to the chicken salad on my shirt. But then it makes me wonder, "Just how long has it been there?" Was it hanging around when the mailman asked me to sign for the package? Was it there when my neighbor stopped by to say hello? I bet during our entire conversation she was debating whether or not to tell me.
Maybe the solution is to only buy clothes that have a patterned design. Who knows, maybe the women in the Scottish town who invented paisley used to be lunch slobs, just like me.
Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.
Suzanne Beecher
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http://www.DearReader.com
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