(A long story made short)
My husband loves to collect objects with a bit of history attached to them.
A few months ago he “found” an old dressing table by the side of the road and brought it home.
I have no idea which era it was from, but it was definitely in a retro style – 1960s or 1970s maybe.
Everyone who saw it… baulked and recoiled in horror.
I didn’t hate it. I just wasn’t too pleased that it was *suddenly* a part of our home.
But my husband saw some charm in it, and yes, even I had to agree, that it was “amazing” – in that it was in PRISTINE CONDITION.
We weren’t sure what to do with it, so in the meantime it sat on one side of our living room.
Now I love my husband.
He puts up with my overflowing wardrobe, my mountain of shoes, my need to glue-tack “pretty stuff” on the walls and my stash of Asian snacks in the pantry.
He puts up with my shit. And I put up with his.
With a smile of course.
While he was overseas for 4 weeks… I tried to move his beloved dressing table to make room for some shelves.
I knew I couldn’t lift it, so my plan was to slide it. I lifted up a front leg the *tiniest bit*, so I could slip a towel under it (so it wouldn’t scratch the floor). But I mis-judged the weight of the mirror.
The mirror was so heavy that the whole thing tipped over. In. Slow. Motion. In. Front. Of. My. Eyes.
I was crouched down low, in front of the table, so I didn’t have time, or the strength to catch it as it fell.
I don’t know which scared my toddler the most. The crash. Or my swearing.
I just stood there dumbly for a very long time.
Just looking at the broken bits of glass on the floor.
Then the guilt kicked in.
I felt soooooooooooooooooooo bad.
The more I looked at it, the more I felt like laughing and crying at the same time.
My husband was in Scotland, I was in Australia, and there was an 8 hours time difference. I tried to call him, but he was probably still asleep. So I texted him instead, to tell him the bad news.
When he replied, he was very gracious.
He was very concerned that no one was hurt. He reminded me to be careful while cleaning it all up. He wasn’t angry or upset.
I cleaned it up.
(After taking photos, as evidence)
A week later he came home. I said sorry. He didn’t seem to mind. And it was all a non-event after that.
But the craziest thing is… whenever we retell the story to people… no one believes that it was an accident! Everyone thinks that I did it on purpose!
My husband believes me. I think :)