This morning, I was in the shower in this new home of ours. It’s a shower for which I am not familiar. I was alone in this enormously old home, the only sound being an occasional gurgle in the pipes from an overactive sump pump. As I am scrubbing my hair, suds in my eyes, I feel someone touch my back.
Slight turn of stomach, resist the urge to scream, not able to open my eyes, and then pretend I don’t feel someone touching my back. Nope. Yep. Someone or something is touching my back.
When I rinsed the soap from my eyes and gathered the courage to turn around quick all ready to karate chop the intruder, here was the intruder:
See his spindly arm all sticking out there refusing to play nice? I am not a fan.
But I am a fan of being clean and of having a shower instead of just a bathtub or a sink or a hose.
Funny how when you are in the middle of city life with Subways and McDonalds and Chipotles and Paneras and Taco Bells and Wendys and Sonics and Pizza Huts, a plain ol’ sandwich just doesn’t sound good at all.
I am not a fan of a plain ‘ol sandwich with nothing but lunch meat and cheese.
But when you are in the middle of small town life with nothing but the small town grocery store, the local dollar store, and a convenience store, and your husband calls and says he is going to come home for lunch to enjoy a little bit of the beautiful fall day with his wife, there is almost nothing better than a plain ‘ol sandwich with nothing but lunch meat and cheese on a paper plate, eaten on the porch in the peaceful quiet sunshine of a late September day. I am a fan of that kind of sandwich, for sure.
Dirty floors and windows. Not a fan.
But when dirty floors and windows are dirty because of little mouths and fingers, or dirty because of work being done outside for a new yard and dirty comes inside at the end of a long day, I am a fan all the day long.
Not having enough room in the backseat for the youngest sister to sit. Not a fan.
Sitting on my oldest brother’s comfortable and inviting lap because he never minded and never complained, definitely a fan.
Having a birthday and feeling a little forgotten. Not a fan.
Always receiving a birthday card from oldest brother who learned the art from our Mama, plug me in and turn me to full speed because I am a fan.
Today is oldest brother’s birthday. Steve, you are not forgotten, you are loved by me, and you have a fan, brand Rhonda.
I am a fan = I am grateful.