By Dorothy Rosby
Recently, a friend gave me one of those grippers you use to open jar lids. She said she’d found it at a thrift shop and, remembering I’d said I needed one, she’d purchased it for me. I thanked her profusely. How nice to be thought of. Except that I didn’t remember telling her I needed it.
Not that I don’t need it. It’s just that up until that moment, with the gripper staring me in the face, it had not occurred to me how much I need it.
My friend seemed proud of herself for being so thoughtful. She proceeded to tell me her acquisition story, as bargain shoppers often do, and I pretended to listen while I racked my brain. Had I made any comment that would have led her to believe I was having trouble opening jars? I couldn’t remember a single thing. And yet I have had trouble opening jars. If I hadn’t mentioned I needed a gripper, I should have.
My friend was now carrying on about how often she uses her own gripper, as do her mother, her sister, and the neighbor down the street. And then it occurred to me. What if my friend has me confused with someone else? Now that person will go on struggling with her kosher dills and grape jelly, and it will be my fault. What a thing to have on my conscience!
But what could I do? By that time we were a good ten minutes into the conversation; a conversation in which I had enthusiastically thanked my friend for her thoughtfulness and agreed that yes, I could really use the gripper. It seemed too late to say, “I’m sorry. Now that I think about it, I think you must have me confused with someone else who’s lost their grip.”
But I didn’t have the courage. Instead I offered to pay her for the gripper which I hadn’t planned on buying. I was concerned that if I paid her, she’d start bringing me all sorts of things I need, but don’t know it yet. I offered anyway, and she graciously declined. It was a gift; a gift that was probably meant for someone else. I took it and use it often, always wondering, am I forgetful or am I a liar? Don’t answer that.
Meanwhile, my friend hasn’t brought me any other useful kitchen items—or anything else for that matter. Maybe she’s onto me. Or maybe I haven’t mentioned I need anything else, in which case, I could really use some wooden spoons.
I’m sure this story serves to illustrate a point, though I’m not sure what it is. Maybe just that the longer you wait, the harder it gets to speak up. Whether it’s telling your neighbor that it was you who reported their barking dog to animal control. Or telling your parents that you’re the one who burned down the garage when you were 14. These are just examples, mind you. We had a carport when I was growing up, and it’s still standing.
I swear my delay was only an attempt to buy thinking time. But I waited too long, and I certainly didn’t want to embarrass us both after we’d carried on like that. Plus, I was afraid she’d want the gripper back.
Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books and on Amazon.