When I first started dating I was invited to the home of my boyfriend’s grandparents for an early Christmas dinner. I was sixteen or seventeen years old. No one in attendance that day will forget how I ruined Grandma’s big day; I know I never have.
We were running a little bit late and had to park down the street since so many relatives had already arrived. There were no sidewalks and we cut across a few front yards before entering the house. I was escorted through a large festive living room and into the kitchen to meet some of the family. Shortly after being introduced to the parents of my friend we heard a commotion in the room we had just walked through.
Grandma was having a very non-festive conniption fit and non-festive gagging was erupting from others who had ventured into the living room to inquire about the problem. It turned out that I was the reason for the problem.
My size tens had stepped in a very unpleasant pile of poop that had obviously been dropped by a Christmas elephant. I had tracked it across sixteen feet of plush, new, beige carpeting and into the kitchen. The mortification nearly killed me. The mess, and smell, nearly killed everyone else.
It should not come as a surprise for you to learn that I did not stay for dinner. The carpet, my shoes and my relationship with my boyfriend were ruined. Beige has since been my least favorite color, the shoes were really cute, and the boyfriend was just so-so. I missed the shoes more than the boyfriend.
Granny was so pissed that I bet she changed her will.
To this day I will not cut across yards and I always wipe my feet, twice, before entering a home.
I ALWAYS keep a keen eye out for Christmas elephants.
