As I was tugging my dryer the other day in an attempt to move it out of its niche beside the washer, I realized something. I realized that at my age (never you mind) I had no business tugging on large appliances.
This hit me with all the force of an epiphany, probably because I often forget my age. But what to do? I’d already succeeded in yanking it halfway out of its nesting place with a combination of tugging and rocking slightly back and forth. Really, trying to get that dryer out was like yanking on a gigantic loose tooth not quite ready to break free. But it had to be done, it was time. All sorts of odds and ends were lodged between the wall and dryer: a crumpled box of dryer sheets, some kind of metal box, a stuffed bunny and typically, stray socks. (Never mind them not matching, I’d never even seen any of them before!)
Should I stop my craziness and shove it back, just admit defeat and wait until my son was available to move it for me? I looked over at fat cat Midge to see if she had any wisdom to impart, but she didn’t. The only thing she’s been imparting these days is fat clumps of fur that have the ability to startle me every time I walk into a room and see them strewn about. Has there been a cat fight in here and I missed it?
Is this how it’s going to be now? Have I become one of those stubborn old women who refuse help and end up breaking a hip? My obstinacy, mingled with my tendency these days to hear my dryer speaking to me, should be alarming. It’s not.
What worries me is whether my dryer will still speak to me now that I’ve jolted it out of its resting place.