girl at large

I had an encounter in Target yesterday (yes, I only seem to be able to go as far as Target on my days off, the weather here encourages nesting with an unstoppable force) that the marketing department of a certain German manufacturer would have loved to have overheard.
My dear, beloved Rowenta had been lost–lifted really, by a renter in Savannah. I don't blame the renter for taking the superior machine, use it once and who could blame her? In its place was left a sad, generic model that could barely warm tea, much less press a shirt. This inferior iron, in its despair for being despised, had finally flung itself off the board, dashed itself to cheap plastic bits on the floor boards below.
So, I was inspecting the Rowenta offerings in the small appliance aisle. I was not alone. The other shopper looked at me, and said, "You must get a Rowenta." Turns out, her 15-year old classic Rowenta had just yesterday finally died. The look on her face was of real loss. I knew that look.
We chatted and shared stories of our treasured tools, praising their qualities. The Accuracy–wives all over the world wish their husbands were this accurate with liquids. The Reliablity–the Synthetic setting never scorches. The Heft and Feel—the plate always glides.
We had a moment. After some discussion of the preferred model (oh, how we yearned for the Professional!), we wished each other well with our new machines–as if wishing each other well with new marriages, as if we had shared this moment at a bridal shop.