After much Internet research, I have come up with a diagnosis for a very serious condition that I suffer from: ADOS. The scientific name for this sickness is Attention Deficit. . . Oooo, Sparkly!
Peter says I’m like a crow that way. But I noticed my ADOS was progressing when my wedding ring caught the sunlight in the car’s interior and threw sparkly reflections all over the ceiling. I was so enthralled I forgot I was driving until Peter covered his eyes and screamed.
ADOS isn’t like other girlie afflictions. My affliction only hits when something really pretty and shiny catches my eye. Sometimes, people get hurt in my quest for shiny things, although it’s yet to be life-threatening.
Last summer, I was in a party store in town when something so shiny caught my eye I forgot to breathe. It was pink, and had such a sparkle, the light catching it and throwing a rainbow of colours back at me, beckoning me. . . .ooooooo. . . sparkly.
I was entranced. It was behind the counter where the cashier was seemingly holding it for someone. I felt a sense of desperation and walked away from the counter, hoping that I could find one more pink sparkly thing before I passed out.
I found a clear one, just like the pink one. It was smaller, and not quite as sparkly, but it would do if I couldn’t have the coveted pink one.
I approached the counter, cradling my clear sparkly thing, my eyes glued to the pink sparkly thing.
I raised my finger and pointed. “Is that pink pretty thing for sale?”
Maureen, the ever patient and kind cashier at the time informed me of the worst news I could hear “I’m sorry, that’s the last one in the store and I’ve reserved it for myself.”
Gulp. It. Won’t. Be. Mine. I let it sink in. Or at least I tried to. “No more?” I squeaked.
“Wait. There might be one left in the display window.” She came around the counter and moved to climb in the window. I tried my best not to do a little happy dance. Sparkly pink thing, sparkly pink thing!
As Maureen came back to the floor, two boys happened to open the door to come in. Maureen’s fingers slipped into the crack of the door jamb where the hinges are. The boys didn’t see her, and the door closed.
On her fingers. Maureen hollered. I dove from the counter, knocking over a rack of something, practically impaling my thigh on some party stick or another, but I had Maureen’s fingers free in two seconds flat.
Her face was pale and her fingers were cradled in her hand. I knew that had to hurt like nobody’s business, and I started to apologize for making her look in the window for a stupid, shiny, glass, pink paperweight.
Yes that’s right. A paperweight that weighs about two pounds and is cut like a giant pink diamond.
And Maureen, in her pain-hazed cloud, said I could have the one she was going to take.
And you know what? I felt bad for her fingers (even checked in on her a couple of days later), but I wanted that pink sparkly paperweight more. So I bought it.
See what I mean? People get hurt when I am in the throes of ADOS. Hide your sparklies when I’m around – it could get ugly.
I have to go polish my giant pink diamond now.