She Went Out in a Blaze of Glory

Many years ago I remember saying goodbye to something that had been a part of our family for as long as I had been alive. I sobbed inconsolably, begging my parents not to get rid of her. In the midst of my grief, I convinced my sister to join forces with me. Wrapping our arms around her lifeless body, we would not allow her to be taken away without the fight of our young lives.

But our parents got rid of that old washing machine anyway and replaced her with a shiny new Whirlpool without so much as a backward glance.

And next went the couches.

Thankfully my parents had learned enough at that point to realize that not allowing Challi and me to say goodbye would be a really bad idea. So, before my uncle could whisk them off to a new home far away, he was instructed to bring the tattered couches by the dance studio where we were attending ballet class, to allow final farewells.

My uncle, father to three rough and tumble sons, was quite miffed at the whole teary scene. But to his credit, he did not crack a smile as I promised my beloved love seat to sit on the floor for eternity as not to betray her by placing my backside on our new plush sofa.

Unhealthy attachment to inanimate objects? Debatable. But Traitor? NO WAY!

So, it should come as no surprise to those who know me best that I bid farewell to my toaster tonight with a heavy heart. Given to me by my thoughtful Mother-In-Law five years ago, I have tried for months to hang on to my sweet appliance, despite the fact that she will only toast about every third try.

It has been a bit of an emotional roller coaster, as it has been touch and go for the last week. Her weak flame flickers ever so slightly, causing my spirits to soar as I think maybe, just maybe, she has some life left in that cute little box of hers. I wait with baited breath and a rumbling tummy, hoping against hope. But as the black smoke infiltrates the kitchen and the sizzling sounds of fleeting electricity screech in my ears, I come to the sad realization.

Tonight she has heated her last waffle.

But with age, comes maturity. Unlike my past behaviors, no longer will I wrap my arms around her and drag my feet about letting her go. Somehow, inconsolable tears and begging Chris to let me keep her just doesn't seem like a viable option.

So, instead I'll simply say rest in peace, my fashionable leopard-print appliance.


After I promise her to eat plain bread for eternity rather than betray her by placing my slice in another toaster, that is.