By Faith Ellestad

It was a celebration of someone’s life, and I dreaded going. What was the matter with me?  Normally, although I don’t look forward to such occasions, I’m okay to go.  But this was different.  We weren’t close to Lana and Bob, her recently deceased husband; in fact, we had only met a few times.  I knew they were involved in good works, and politically active, which I admired

But I didn’t know the last time I had encountered Lana, at a gathering of mutual friends, that Bob had developed rapid-onset dementia, Blithely unaware of Bob’s diagnosis, or that he had been admitted to memory care, I made a light-hearted remark about his absence, suggesting he had better things to do, ha ha. Lana replied, imforming me–somewhat tersely–of his whereabouts.  I felt awful and embarrassed and started to nervously over-apologize, which of course made her tear up.  Had there been a hole available, I would have unquestionably crawled in.  Instead, Lana turned away to join a different conversation while I silently inhaled my order of fish tacos so quickly I barely noticed their limp coldness. Lana left shortly thereafter, and I sat dejectedly blaming myself and desperately uncomfortable, wishing I had known about Bill.

With that very discomfiting memory of our previous meeting front and center, I now faced having to express my regrets to an acquaintance I may or may not have insulted.

After two weeks of almost constant worry, I reminded myself that not everything was about me, and at the very least, I would be increasing the attendance for her husband’s memorial. It was the one thing I could do.

Normally, I would have had little angst over what outfit to choose, but the previous week, I had managed to trip on our bedframe in the middle of the night and break my little toe, And, may I add, for purposes of sympathy, it was quite painful.  My sartorial quest was to find an outfit that would at least diminish the unfortunate mismatched footwear, one normal and one toeless Velcro strapped surgical shoe. I chose a midnight blue top and midnight blue patterned pants.  Black socks hid my bare toes in the surgical boot and a black shoe on the other foot was the best I could do footwear-wise. A deep breath and I was ready to go.  Except–

Just as we were about to leave for the event, I remembered a small shoulder bag I hadn’t used in several years, buried in my bottom dresser drawer.  The purse was cherry red, easy to wear over my shoulder, with just room for my phone, wallet, and comb.  Just that little pop of color I was always reading about in those “what to wear” fashion articles online, subtly enhancing my very somber outfit.  It was a celebration, after all.  I was delighted to have remembered it at the last moment, that little bright red dot of confidence. At least I looked as good as one could limping around in two wildly mismatched pieces of footwear,

As we arrived, I was still having reservations.  Should I mention our conversation and apologize, or just not say anything?  At least I would be there in friendship; Lana was free to think whatever she might. Whatever.  I would just have to deal with myself.  Remember, it’s Not. About. You.

I asked my husband to check my shirt for cat hair before we went in, and he did some serious brushing on the back of my shoulder.

 “Just some fuzz, or something,” he reassured me.

I didn’t have any idea where I had encountered fuzz between our garage and this parking lot. But at least he had removed it before I went in. 

“Just a minute.” He had stopped at the top of the stairs. “A little more fuzz.”

“Huh, is there a cottonwood around here?”

“Don’t know, but I think I got it all.”

We walked downstairs and I switched my purse to the opposite shoulder.  A little tuft of fuzz wafted by. Then I noticed the strap had a wee bare patch at the top and the lining had rubbed off on my shirt. A brief pluck of my shoulder before stepping into the receiving line.

Lana saw us, gave us each a warm hug, and held my hand tightly.

“Oh, you came! I’m so glad to see you. Thank you, thank you for coming!”

I was so relieved it was my turn to get a little teary.

As we left the line, we ran into a couple of good friends.

“Faith!” said my blunt-spoken friend in her broad Australian accent, “@hat’ s going on with your purse?  It’s shedding!”

“I know. I guess the strap is a little worn. I should have checked it out before I left.”

“It’s not just the strap.” She was laughing so hard her wine began to slosh over the edge of her glass.

“What?”  I squeaked.

Now my husband and her spouse were starting to laugh, too.

I pulled the purse off my shoulder and examined it.  Unbelievably, the entire covering had begun peeling off the liner, which was shredding exuberantly.  White fuzz was everywhere, covering me and floating throughout the room, stealthily drifting onto other guests. At first, I was mortified, then suddenly the hilarity of the situation struck me, and I was laughing as hard as the rest.

“Let’s find a table,” my friend suggested.  “You can hide it in the corner.”

 Had I been wearing pants with pockets, I would have taken my phone and wallet out and thrown the damn thing away. It was kind of like wearing the Scarlet Letter. Hard to live down.

“Do you happen to have a trash bag with you?” I asked.

She did not. She just laughed. I parked my little desiccated accessory behind a floral arrangement, brushed my entire outfit off, with a little help from my friends, and proceeded to fill a plate with delicious snacks and enjoy the presentation. 

Returning home, I showed the purse remnants to my son and amused him by dropping it emphatically into the trash, 

So really, it wasn’t all about me, only it kind of was, too.  I did the right thing for Lana, and I wasn’t arrested by the fashion police. Score two!

© 2026 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents.  Now retired, she has taken the opportunity to sort through family memorabilia, discovering a wellspring of tales begging to be told, which she hopes to expand upon in written form (where appropriate, of course!).   She and her husband live in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law, and recently expanded their family to include Thistle and Bramble, two irrepressible young felines.