Psychologists speak of one-trial learning, those things we only have to do only once to realize we should never do them again. Such things may include: sticking one’s tongue to a metal pole in the winter; riding a roller-coaster as a motion-sensitive adult; going up to the buffet four times; or, in my case, wearing white (or ivory or cream or any colour lighter than chestnut).
You might think I’m speaking of a white wedding dress here, and although that would be included in this category–it is a light colour after all–the reasons would have nothing to do with my purity. In fact, I cannot wear white because I am a bleeder. I’ve told you about my propensity for bruising: what is bruising if not bleeding under the skin? But every day I have to poke a hole in myself with a needle, a hole which provides a ready departure point for bleeding above the skin.
Today, I had a client and was going for lunch with a friend afterward, so I decided I’d wear something nicer than yoga pants. I thought I might pull out my favourite cream corduroys since it’s a very fall-like day here in Calgary. Yoga wear is more typical since often my only outing is to to the gym. And so I put said corduroys on, first checking that the very expensive bandaid covering today’s needle prick was intact. (I gave up on generic bandaids long ago, for reasons that will become clear.)
When I got home, my hip felt a little moist. Because I am a bit slow, I did not realize immediately why this might be. And then I looked down to see not one but three nice large red spots on my pants. And so off came the pants, off came the failed very expensive bandaid, and on went a new just-as-costly bandaid and pants of a much darker colour. And yet another load of emergency laundry went in. (I try to conserve water, except in a bleeding emergency.)
Really, it’s time I donate these pants to Goodwill (after I remove the stains, of course). I bought them for $20 a few years ago and they have served me well since. They’re one of the few pairs of pants that have somehow fit through the many ups and downs in the size of my “pregnancy”. I’m sure they’re completely out of style now, but I’m quite fond of them, so it’s been hard to say good bye. But sometimes we all must admit defeat. Maybe it’s time.
Oh, and who decided that hotel sheets should be white? Someone who didn’t know me, of course. And who was ignorant enough to invent light-coloured couches? Some fool, I think, who didn’t have kids and didn’t know a bleeder.
If you mistakenly purchased one of those couches, you might want to think twice before letting me near it. I won’t be hurt if you lay a dark-coloured towel (folded over for good measure) on it before I arrive. I will understand that that is my designated spot. Those darn things are a pain to clean. Trust me, I know, at least from what J. tells me.