Walk Like An Egyptian

I still remember the feel of the sheets I found in a department store in downtown Kerrville, Texas, (the one that’s gone now, Schreiner’s) that I wanted to buy with what was left of my going-away gift certificate from my coworkers. I stood there, in the linens department, for 20 minutes, feeling those sheets—Egyptian cotton, 400-thread count—my fingers shoved into the packaging, caressing the material like a big weirdo and daydreaming about how it would feel to sleep on them.

Twenty minutes! Really!

The set was on sale for $80 and I had the money for it but I also had Libby and Bella, two pooches, who would have ruined them immediately while not experiencing a single pang of guilt for doing so.

Oh, but I wanted those sheets in the worst way! It is one of those times that stand out clearly in my mind. The longing—they call it that because the feeling lasts a bit—then denial, acceptance and the walk-away.

I loved that store and the things it sold: always they had lovely home goods, my favorite section.

I sighed, put the package down, looked around to see if anyone was taking special notice of me and walked away slowly, hoping to prevent myself from being arrested for acting like a sheets pervert.

I don’t have any Egyptian cotton sheets still, nor do I have Libby and Bella any more, and I’m OK with all of it.