Mossy Cottage Knits

Just When You Think You've Got It All Figured Out...

The late posting is due to the fact that I found myself, unexpectedly, at a funeral this morning. The death itself wasn’t unexpected (the father of one of my employees passed away after a long illness), the funeral wasn’t unexpected, my presence at the funeral was.

Oh, Dear Readers, if you could have been witnesses to my morning! At 9:45 a.m., I was leaning back in my office chair, feet crossed upon my desk, picking my teeth, sucking on a wheat stalk, scratching my favorite rooster under the chin, and placidly contemplating whether or not to go down one floor to rustle myself up a cup of hot tea. That was when co-workers started trickling into my office one-by-one asking if I was going to go the funeral. Um. Er. I dunno. And then, smack on the forehead to me! Yes, I was supposed to be at the funeral. What had I been thinking?! I am the bereaved’s supervisor; there are a grand total of three of us in the technical writing department so we're quite close; and if there has ever been a time when one of us needed support, this was it, so, yes, yes, indeed, I was supposed to be at the funeral. What a doof.

The problem? By then it was 10am. The funeral was at 11. What was I wearing? Jeans with a yellow paint stain on them, a brightly striped sweater, and scuffed sneakers—not acceptable funeral attire, in fact, barely acceptable work attire. Where do I live, and where are all my other clothes? A good 45-minute drive away, on the other side of Lake Washington. After a hurried consultation with The Mysterious K during which we decided that, no, she couldn’t possibly get some dark-ish clothes to me in time—although, to her credit, she was perfectly willing to try—I jumped in the car and sped off to a department store five miles down the road. In the space of half-an-hour, I purchased black clothes (which fit—that's the miracle!); changed into them in a too-small stall in a ladies' room in a messy flurry of arms, legs, sweaters and pants, accompanied by loud, unladylike grunts; and found my way 15 miles through completely unfamiliar territory to the church. With 4 minutes to spare. I was sweatin' it a bit, let me tell you.

The moral of the story? It was Worth. Every. Minute. One look at the tears of relief and heartfelt gratitude in my employee's eyes when she saw the six of us from work who attended told me that every moment of panic, every ounce of adrenaline, every unladylike grunt, every permanent finger dent in my steering wheel—all worth it for that one moment. I'm feelin' pretty good. Sad and reflective, but good.