The prodigal glove

I'm wary of gloves. Why buy something that invariably escapes after you've worn it twice?

On the one hand, gloves are an excellent device and they perfectly fulfill the purpose for which you bought the darn things. They keep your hands warm, doh.

This glorious red glove is new. I've worn it (and its mate) three times. Icebreaker. Fine merino. Perfect.

Then I lost them, as you do. I'm so used to this that I barely blinked. Sure, I performed the ritual search of house, bags, pockets, drawers, filing cabinets, toybox, bathroom, shoes, refrigerator, photo album, sewing kit, oven, pot cupboard, litter box -- all the usual suspects. When the gloves failed to materialise, I barely blinked. Vanishing gloves? I'm over it.

But today I succumbed and searched one more time. And yay! Emanating from the depths of a bag I use only on Wednesdays, only for Crows Feet dance practice, was a bright red glow. Yessss. That's why I bought them red, not black.

Today's joy is the joy of finding lost gloves. They ran away from home, they had a spree and then they slunk back. It doesn't happen often in a century. Chalk it up.