Out of all of the plastic mouth wash bottles in America, I had to fall into this one.
It happened in the middle of a life changing moment on Tuesday when I wished too hard to become a light-hearted, twinkling, prancing, dazzling faerie.
Pinz. Zinz. Kinz. Linz. Suddenly I had wings and could fly.
I flew into the bathroom first, right up to the top of the medicine cabinet with the mirror so I could see how cute I was. My hair was rainbow colors, and I had silver skin. I dazzled and razzled like glitter. I was quite adorable! Up close and personal, my azure eyes were a wow! I am as beautiful as any rainbow trout, I thought.
Then I looked into the bathtub and remembered how much I used to love to swim, resolving to become a fish if I got another wish. I apparently wished too hard because Pinz. Zinz. Kinz. Linz. Winz. My wings were gone, and I fell hard and fast, landing into the turquoise mouthwash bottle with a plunk. It was lucky I do not always put the lid back, as a lid-land might have killed me from that height.
Although I could not see the mirror now, I instinctively knew I was no rainbow trout. I felt more like a guppy. I enjoyed swimming for the first day or so. I did back flips, and crawls, and floats.
I tried becoming a spider next, because they can climb out of almost anything, but the Pinz Zinz Linz Winz did not happen this time. Tired of kicking my fins, I started to back float, dreaming I was floating on a cloud. I did this for maybe eighteen hours. By the time two evenings had rolled by without me, my husband and dog had stopped looking.
This morning was day three, and I was now utterly exhausted, and wishing that my husband used a cup with the mouthwash. I knew that when he ran out of his mouthwash, he would come to this sink to use mine, and I knew also knew that he rarely uses a cup.
I ranted and raved and flopped and screamed an hour ago, when he entered my bathroom. I frankly made as much noise as a guppy can make, which is no noise at all when he came in to read a newspaper and other things. I watched him wash his hands, and leave. But he came back in, reached for my mouthwash cell, and took a big swig of the stuff.
I was caught up in his mouth, of course. He swirled me around a bit, and promptly spit me into the sink. This was an enormous relief until I remembered that I had gotten angry with the sink and pulled the stopper out of it a couple of months ago. The drain of course, is much bigger than a guppy.
Pinz. Zinz. Kinz. Linz. Winz.
“What are you doing in the sink?” he asked me.
As if he did not know.
Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2018
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