In typically random fashion, we positioned the stand for the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom exactly where we wanted it last week but did not get around to unpacking the actual mirror, which had been lying on the floor right next to it, until tonight.
The mirror had been wrapped in many protective layers of paper and cardboard by our movers. But when we set the box upright and cut through the rigid exterior, the mirror, still encased in paper, folded in half right before us, as if taking a great big bow. Not a good sign.
Off to the trash she went, my beloved mirror of over a decade.
For some reason, though we've been through major hassles with this renovation and move--for example, having to move three times over the course of three months, having carpeting installed incorrectly by a team of highly baked incompetents who accused us of going around and pulling it apart at the seams, maybe because we loved their company and wanted them to keep returning to our home, but were too shy about inviting them to dinner?--this struck me as the saddest part of all. Despite everyone's best efforts to keep it intact, the mirror had still shattered. All the upheaval was just too damn much for that fragile thing--which, you know, I can really relate to.
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