I’ve never been much for hankies. My grandma always had one stuffed up her shirt sleeve. Now, I think she may have been on to something.
Just think of how they might come in handy–at funerals, amid pity-parties. After all, there’s only so much you can do with tissue. And Lord help you if you blow through all the Kleenex.
Case in point: years ago I attended a very difficult funeral. Being the gusher that I am, I could not stem the tide. Tissues, used within an inch of their lives, filled my fists, the overflow filled my purse. Nary a Kleenex remained unscathed, still the tears flowed. Suddenly, my mom turned and glanced my direction–then she glanced again. Her eyes flew wide, and she started brushing at her face.
My visage, you see, contained little more than disintegrated Kleenex. I looked as though I’d sprouted a white nubby beard; little white balls hung from my eyelashes. I brushed with fury, but to no avail.
Then, we got tickled.
Crying at a funeral is one thing–laughing is quite another.
And to think, it all could have been avoided with a hanky.
Something to ponder, my friends, something to ponder . . .