Glove love and other embarrassing tales I’ve collected.

November 21, 2011

I accumulate things.

Maybe it’s the influence of my Sagittarius star sign, but I have a difficult time throwing anything away. Even when they’re tatty and broken and falling apart and little more than scattered parts at the bottom of a drawer, I tend to cast my mind back to the time of purchase. A shinier time, a younger time. A time of innocence, a time of need when this object, this thing, filled that need.

None of which explains the latex glove.

I tuck objects into jacket pockets, only to rediscover them, like my own personal treasure hunt, some months later. Inside pockets work especially well as Aladdin’s caves. For example, I have secreted away several tickets from hockey games I’ve attended over the years.

I also have a matchbook from Joe’s Crab Shack in San Francisco that never fails to produce a smile of remembrance every time I encounter it because, from that restaurant’s second-floor window, Viking Woman and I would watch the Bush Man scare the living bejesus out of unwary tourists.

None of which explains the latex glove.

One glove. Singular. Lingering in a pocket of my winter jacket. Why a latex glove, you ask. And where is its partner?

And why don’t I just throw the darn thing away?

That latter thought certainly crossed my mind when, while making a recent purchase, I fished spare change from my jacket pocket. When I pulled out the coins, the glove came with them, fluttering out to sit in a grey, crumpled heap, four fingers and a thumb pointing straight at me as if I were the biggest perv on the planet.

I glanced up at the sales girl but her eyes were riveted on the discoloured creature crouching on the counter, her face reflecting equal parts horror and revulsion.

I suppose a condom might have been more embarrassing but at least it has a recognizable purpose. One dirty latex glove? Not so much.

I may as well have spilled out a balaclava, black tape, handcuffs, pliers and a coil of rope. You could have sliced the menace in the air with, well, a box cutter.

Blushing crimson, I quickly paid for my purchase and dashed from the store.

The glove? It should have been left behind. It should have been pitched into the nearest rubbish bin. It should have been out of my life forever so I could never again look like a serial killer sizing up his next victim.

Instead, it’s back in my jacket pocket where, I suspect, it will sit for sometime to come. Yes, it is an object with evil potential but, dammit, it’s my object.


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