First of all, if you haven't read Mechel's comment below on how she actually met Donny Osmond, go to yesterday's comments. It's hilarious. And if you want a chance to win the Christmas CD, leave a comment about how you realize that Donny was meant to marry me and no one else.
New business: There's an email going around that says we (women) should be afraid, very afraid, of fitting room mirrors. Allegedly, in some there are secret two-way mirrors that allow red-faced, sweaty-palmed 17 year-old boys to gaze upon your loveliness while you try on clothes that you're already pretty sure you're going to hate.
This is indeed scary. Why? If this were to happen with me, the young man would be traumatized beyond human help. It would be like a sin gone so bad that the miserable consequences would be emblazoned on his brain forever like a white-hot branding iron imprint of cellulite and droop. Only the Almighty could erase the image.
Anyway. The theory is, if you put your finger tip to the mirror and see a space, you are OK. If your finger tip seems to touch your reflected finger tip directly, then with everything in you, "Get the ... cellulite outta there!" The official memory aid is: "No Space, Leave the Place."
Now, some claims are not easily challenged, and then, of course, we must make a pilgrimage to the fount of all truth, "Snopes." But that would be the lazy man's way out in this case.
So my family and I spent about 30 minutes testing the mirrors all over our house Sunday morning before church. (The beauty of having big, non-cute kids is that since you're no longer changing Baby's spitty/poopy outfit for the third time on Snday morning, you have extra time on your hands, which allows you to be way more spiritually prepared for worship, and to conduct essential mirror-poking tests.)
Anyway, we went around poking all of the mirrors in our home like a family of confused chimpanzees, debating whether we saw spaces or not. In my opinion, my husband, that roguish cad of man, has installed 2-way mirrors all over our house.
His response to my accusation? "Maybe in '87 or 97, but not in '07."
And then there was the interpretation of each touch. If you touch it with even a tiny sliver of fingernail getting there first, you will see a space. If you smash your finger pad into it, you won't see a space. But even with smashing my fleshy finger tip into the mirror, my husband claimed if he could see the reflection of the whole smooshed up tip, then that counts as a space.
In the words of Britney, "Huh?"
Now, I ask you, what is the point of this story? What is the lesson?
No, really, I'm asking you, "Is there a point to this?"
Because, after all, it transpired on a Sunday morning before church, so there must be some spiritual application somewhere.
Is it: "Don't be a dope; go to Snopes."
Or "Now I have to clean these smudges off with Windex on the Sabbath. We're all in big trouble now."
Or "Remember, whenever you point a finger at someone, there's always one pointing right back at you, especially if it's smashed against a mirror."
"KIDS! Don't bug me! I know it looks like I'm merely poking the keys, but I'm actually writing the next great novel!"