True test of loyalty... and I failed!

Yesterday I wore my favorite skirt of all time. It's very bohemian looking- green and blue gauzy fabric and sparkly with little green beads I sewed on myself. I love how it feels- how it flows. It reminds me of the dress Luisa wore when she sang "I am 16 going on 17..." while she leaps from bench to bench. I always wanted a dress like that!

I was examining my skirt while sitting at church- noticing how the beads were beginning to fall off, how the fabric was fading- but I didn't care. When you love something so much, you don't care about the flaws- Kind of like husbands. They will often ask their wives, "Would you still love me if..." and insert something like, "if I lost a pinky"? We answer undoubtedly, of course! How could losing a pinky ever change who you are? What a ridiculous question, and we return to our simmering chili on the stove, smiling inwardly at our ever-constant hearts.

But, this happiness was not to last. Last night as I was carelessly walking barefooted around my yard, examining the fruits of my garden, enjoying the shade of the neighbor's tree, I brushed up against the house as I was walking to the front yard when I heard a horrifying ripping noise.

I looked down to see my dress had caught on some siding sticking out- and it was ruined. The front in tatters and shreds- the gauzy fabric too week and dainty to stand up to the sharp aluminum jutting out from the house.

I stared in despair at the gaping hole in the beautiful fabric. No more would I be able to swish around in lovliness- pretending to be waiting for my postman to bring me a letter and a kiss. (not my real postman... he's NOT cute like Rolf!) I guess when I said earlier that when you love something so much you don't care about its flaws, and I likened it to husbands, well, maybe that's not true. My skirt is now maimed beyond repair and I can't wear it anymore. The skirt that was so beloved is now an abhorance- a painful reminder that it is now flawed and imperfect.

I can't bring myself to throw it away, but I can't ever wear it again. It will forever sit in my closet staring shamefully at me as though it was responsible for its downfall. I, in return, will look quickly away- too ashamed of my own inconstancy as I shut the closet door. I will forever question, am I really just a fair weather friend? When you come to me in tatters, worn out and frail, will I turn from you, too?

Now, when my husband asks "Would you still love me if I lost a pinky?" I don't know what I will say. Can a person ever be whole again if they've lost a pinky?