My mother introduced me to her over ten years ago. At first, I thought she was too long. Too green. Too boxy. The sleeves hung off like big, floppy . . . sleeves. The brown wooden buttons she sported were majorly ugly. I’m not sure what possessed me, but I took her anyway and brought her to my office. I forgot about her. Until that fateful day . . .
I work in a government building. Despite constant cries of lack of fundage, one thing the government does not skimp on is air conditioning.
Years ago on a hundred-degree July day, I sat freezing in my office rubbing my hands together to keep my circulation flowing. As I debated whether or not to start a small fire in the trash can to warm myself, I saw her out of the corner of my eye, hanging on a coat rack, calling me. Her boring green hue. Her shapeless form. Her wooden buttons. The orangutan arm sleeves.
What the heck, I thought. It was worth a try. Sure beat starting a fire in a federal building.
I still remember the moment we made contact. I slid my arm through her sleeve and my world changed forever. She made me a better person, a less-bitter government employee. Suddenly, the sun outside, as well as my future, seemed brighter. The frigid air blowing on my head from the ceiling vent didn’t seem so cold. I felt instantly at ease with one touch of her cheap wool. As I wrapped her tightly around me, she talked to me without words, saying, “Take me. Use me. Love me.”
And I did.
I settled down on my office chair and looked at my computer, the glow of her green reflecting back at me from the white screen before me. From that moment on, I knew. I knew we were meant to be together. My world as a working drone would never be the same. We were Forever.
Ten years later, she’s the first thing I seek when I walk into my office every morning. I wrap her around me when I am cold, scared, hungry, tired, sad. She’s guided me through good and bad times, through the cold of winter and the artificial cold of summer. Through two pregnancies she stretched over my giant belly. When I feel confident and warm, she drapes herself over the back of my chair giving me space to breathe, yet always nearby. Year after year she remains, except for an occasional laundering. Since that first day, her wool has softened and her boxy form has loosened. Her buttons have fallen off. Her color has faded. Her arms have stretched to a point that even Shaq would have to roll up the sleeves. Still, I wouldn’t trade her for anything.
I’ve tried to replace her. Once when we were on a break, I tried a new one from Anthropologie. One that looked pretty and new and was on sale. But as I slid into the new, fresh fleece-lined arms, it just didn’t feel the same. I knew I had made a mistake. Engulfed by guilt, I went back to the familiar and soothing comfort I’d known for a decade. As I wrapped myself in her again, we melted together like ice cream into a cone.
I can’t live without her. She’s my Woobie.
Do you have a Woobie?
(This post is an attempt at The Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge looking for humor. You can see that post here.)