All You Need is Gloves...

No, the above picture is not a modern art installation purchased at auction from some reclusive outsider artist just discovered in the Shawangunk Mountains....it is merely photographic evidence of what I've been reduced to.
One of my most irritating tendencies is the knack of repeatedly losing my winter gloves, a habit that started soon after those cute little kiddie klips were removed from my mittens in 1983. But, after numerous years and $$ spent in the hundreds, I've decided it finally has to end.

This declaration actually came at the end of last year when I lost a lovely pair of Thinsulate red gloves in February. A brief stay of embarrassment was granted, however, as Bosco, hearing my rants had ran out to procure an even lovelier robin's egg blue fleece pair to surprise me that frigid night....it seemed such a shame to shackle them, so I decided to give myself a pardon and was sure losing the thoughtful gift was impossible.

Alas, they were sucked into the great glove ephemera sometime around the end of last March, and oncemore I was intent on keeping the next pair of gloves I purchased no matter how ridiculous the means. Yet again I was foiled, as this past October my mother sent me a sleek pair of black suede darlings. It seemed that they were less bulkier than previous pairs and thus had a good life expectancy--shackling them would only break their spirit! Do I even need to write that Mr. Left was abandoned at a furniture store in Niles, IL due to my rather exuberant hopping on couches? A new pair were quickly purchased at a nearby Target on clearance and were on the road to being hung as soon as I returned home. It having been one of those weeks where breathing becomes optional, I didn't get around to this immediately and instead have now managed to almost lose them 3 times over the past 2 weeks the last involving a panicky sprint back to a local Italian eatery before the busboy got a nice warm additional tip. But, the recent cold snap and dwindling or non-existent stock of gloves at the local store has scared me straight and the harnessing commenced this morning.

So, I'm 32 years old and yet again find my gloves on a string, it's unclear if this qualifies as poetic or tragic!