This evening I went to a public hearing in an abandoned middle school to register my displeasure regarding a proposed trash incinerator some hosehead wants to build over in Elbert County. A lot of people were there--so many that I had to stand in the hallway outside the room with like 90 other people who also wanted to get into the meeting, which the bumpkin county commission purposely held in the teensiest little room in the whole place so they wouldn't get yelled out. So I stood in the hall in my Danskos for two hours and talked to people, including an old man in the landfill business who explained to m the difference between Construction & Demolition and Schedule D landfills.
And the whole time I was also thinking about my slippers.
For my birthday this year, I got a new pair of slippers. My old pair were the ones I got for Christmas in 1997, and they are no longer with us; RIP, old buddies. Anyway, my new slipps were on sale at the store downtown where you go to buy your husband's wallet or belt or cowboy hat or the cowhide rug on which you and your loved one are meant to canoodle while lounging on the hearth and gazing at a crackling fire. This is all to say, they are men's slippers--evidently made for a rather petite senior executive who is on a skiing trip in the Swiss Alps. Black and brown leather stitched together by the craftiest artisans, and lined with the souls of virgin fur seals. Seriously, these slippers were intended for fancier feet than mine.
So tonight while I stood in my hard-bottomed clogs, discussing the finer points of fly ash and the ignition temperature of tires, I was secretly thinking about my new slippers. And when the meeting was over and all the cranky, purpley-faced, liver-spotted county commissioners filed out of the room, hounded by television cameras and angry citizens, I sprinted past them and jumped in the car and took off for home, and my sweet, sweet slipps.
Maybe I'll wear them to bed, just for tonight.