On The Mountain – “Where Are My Glasses?”

28 Aug

For the past few months I’ve been looking for a silver, single-strand, chain-linked bracelet for myself.  I figured my empty right wrist would welcome it.  But I’ve had little luck.  Most men’s bracelets I’ve seen are heavy and bulky, festooned with stones or Harley Davidson symbols, and cost far too much money.  I just want something simple and pleasing to the eye.

Well, two weeks ago, while walking along the sidewalk in Multnomah Village outside Portland, I paused for a moment at a vendor’s tent to explore the wares.  I was there, not to find a silver bracelet, but to be part of a wonderful Saturday morning parade celebrating the Village’s community life…floats, bands, marching units, the typical small town parade.  Displayed in the tent was a wide variety of silver products and so I asked the vendor about a man’s bracelet.  “No, I don’t think so,” he told me.  But as I turned to walk away, he called out “Wait a minute.  Would this work?” and held up a silver, single-strand, chain-linked bracelet.  It was love at first sight.

I’ve worn it every day and I’ve been very happy with the purchase.  But a couple of nights ago I decided to give my wrist a rest and took the bracelet off for the night.  It was a big mistake.  When I bought the bracelet, the vendor had put it around my wrist, carefully lining up the ends, holding the little silver ring on one end poised as he used his thumb and forefinger on the other hand to pull a little trigger that opened the clasp.  The two ends came together beautifully and the deal was done.

The next morning I tried to duplicate his procedure: lay bracelet on the bed, pull one end over my right wrist, hold it there with the fourth finger of my left hand, manipulate the clasp with my left thumb and forefinger, open the clasp, slide the connecting ring into the clasp…voila!  Try again.  And then try agin.  After what seemed like a hundred attempts I called my wife, Sue, and begged for help.

We put our two heads and twenty fingers together, but with no success.  My large, male fingers and her slender but arthritic fingers tried in vain for another half an hour.  Finally, we looked at each other and broke down in laughter…it was, in fact, pretty comical.  Especially when, part of the way through the ordeal, she said: “Where are my glasses?  I can’t even see this thing.”

 Maybe people with fat fingers married to people with arthritic fingers, hoping to make sense of the world through trifocals, shouldn’t even own bracelets.  But you have to laugh at yourself sometime, don’t you?

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