I originally planned to do a ‘final thoughts on our adventure’ post but this one is much more fun …
… We’ve been home a month. (it feels like forever, and the trip was just a dream)
In that time I’ve contracted an ‘explosive’ stomach bug, probably from the little germ factories at our twin grandsons birthday party we attended four days after we got back. They’re eight. Yesterday I was holding their little one-day-old bodies in my arms. I’m sure it was yesterday.
When the weather turned a couple of weeks ago one of my hips decided it was time to torture me with a new set of arthriticals. (The time is fast approaching when I’m going to have to titanium-ize every joint from my waist down!)
About a week ago one of my ceramic crowned root canal-ed teeth broke above my gum line, hell, above my bone line. I had to have the roots jackhammered out of my skull and a bone graft inserted into the gaping hole left in my upper jaw.
And then …
I have a reasonably high tolerance for lads and lasses who come knocking on my front door trying to sell me their version of eternity … however these two took the cake.
They were dressed as usual in their black pants and white shirts. (you know who I mean. I wonder why no women of that particular religion participate in these exercises) Anyway, they were dutifully working their way down the opposite side of our street. I didn’t spot ‘em until it was too late to close the door and pretend I wasn’t home. I don’t usually hide but given my recent above mentioned travails, I was in no mood to contend with persistent hawkers of any sort.
They rocked up to my front door and without giving them a chance to open their mouths I said, politely, that I knew who they were and why they’re on my doorstep, and I wasn’t interested. The slightly older one gulped like a fish out of water and started his spiel, like I hadn’t said a thing. I slightly less politely interrupted him and repeated myself.
He tried again and again I interrupted him with a significantly pared down version of my own, “Not interested.”
Which brought us to the punchline of the day, nay, the week. The younger one probably feeling the need to earn some brownie points or something, piped up with these immortal words, “But we’re missionaries!” I swear, his voice quivered with innocent confusion.
I had a couple of choices. One, I could get in his face, I’m much bigger and taller, and tell him where he could shove his missionary position. (my face hurt, my hip hurt, and I was fairly certain the remnants of my ‘explosive’ stomach were about to incite a dash to the toilet) Or two, laugh uproariously and shut the door (politely, I’m Canadian after all) in their bright and shiny faces.
I chose door #2 for one simple fact.