I have a box. My husband swears the box is expandable, accommodating absolutely anything I want to put in it. Every woman should have a box just like mine, and most do. Some items in the box are much more useful than others, although all are important to me and well worth keeping. I have no doubt that most will come in handy someday, so I’m sure I’ll keep them forever. No one can open the box but me, and it doesn’t even have a key.
I don’t often open the box, but when I need to I’m not shy about it. Then, I can put my head down and riffle among the contents, selecting just the right item for the occasion. Not long ago, I gently and by mistake backed into a pole that sprung from nowhere in the parking lot of the cleaners. No harm done, but my husband knew better than to suggest any error on my part, as he knew that in my box I had record of the time he left the loose gooseneck trailer hitch down in the bed of the pickup truck and then drove away—without first lowering the truck tailgate. That V’d tailgate rode with us for a while before he finally visited a body shop. And that item is the absolute prize in my box. Because my box is G-rated, though, I didn’t include the language he used when the truck jerked to a halt hanging on the trailer hitch. Nothing can top that prize egg in the box.
And any traffic ticket I get, which is of course none, can’t compare to those few that he owns that are also housed in my box. So I have license for at least a couple of traffic stops, should they ever occur.
I’m also free to forget to pay the utility bill and it’s perfectly OK to let the car go too long between oil changes. Oh, and those pesky birthdays and anniversaries come around so often that it’s OK to miss a few.
And just when I was beginning to think my box contents were getting a bit low, he found himself late for an appointment and backed directly into a farm gate, V’ing the same new tailgate, but in the opposite direction. He’s still wondering how on earth that gate just jumped right out there at the exact same moment he was backing up. And into my box it goes.
I know I’m not the only one in the family with a box, though, so I’m pretty cautious with digging around in mine. I suspect I’ve given ample opportunity for others to include me in their boxes so I’m respectful and aware. And precisely because I know I’m so error prone, I’m extra careful to collect all I can because I’m sure to need it often. You can never be too careful or too prepared.
I may have a box, but my husband has a book. As long as I’ve known him, he’s been talking about his book. I’d really love to see the book but have yet to be allowed. What I know is that it must be huge, given all the information it includes. “Well, in my book, that’s just ridiculous,” he’ll vow. Or, “In my book, he should be the only one running for office,” he’ll say of his candidate of choice. And on and on. I suspect I’m somewhere in that book, but I’m sure I’ll never see it and I’m not even sure of where he keeps it. It’s probably in the same closet as my box.
Before I give the wrong impression, you should know that my box is not just a holder of “gotchas.” It’s open entry to everything worth recording. It holds the night about 25 years ago when I was an apartment dweller and on my way home one snowy evening. Finding myself stranded in a church parking lot, my now-husband made the 10-mile trek to pull my little mustang out of the ice with his ever present 4-wheel drive truck.
And all of those beautifully penned Valentine’s Day cards and birthday remembrances are definitely secure in my box, along with the daily “just checking on you” texts and calls. See, my box is equal opportunity, with just as many gold nuggets as lumps of coal.
My box also houses the reminder of the multiple times I’ve locked myself out of the house, being rescued by a spouse or daughter with the good grace to never mention it again or to suggest the wisdom of hiding a spare key somewhere. Who has time for that?
And then there’s the time I let the car run out of gas. Well, it really wasn’t my fault as the gas gauge was faulty. Never mind that I could have kept up with miles driven since the most recent fill-up. And yes, I’m sure that’s filed away in someone else’s box, along with the second time I did the very same thing. And that’s why I use my box sparingly. I’m fully aware that what goes around comes around.
But being well armed, so to speak, is never a bad idea. Sort of like the gun control debate, I’ll only give up my defense if everyone else gives up theirs.
And I’m thinking of starting a book. I just don’t know if I have enough good ideas to record in it and I don’t think I’m quite well grounded enough in my convictions to word them well and to stand by them. And anyway, I really do think a box is much more useful if it’s well stocked. I’m definitely like a squirrel storing away nuts. I grab whatever I can find, as everything could be useful under the right circumstances. But I know I’ll never drive a pickup truck. We really can’t afford another tailgate.
