It’s lived past its expiration date by months, years even. It started out as a hand me down from generous relatives, but turned into a hassle, a source of frustration. Who knew an oriental rug could be so infuriating?
And I’m not talking about the fringe. Sure, keeping fringe neat is a thankless job and one I abandoned in practice years ago. In spirit, I never had it in me to devote myself to combing out something that stubbornly refuses to stay straight, twisting and gnarling with the slightest touch. Enough of that.
No, what bothers me about the living room carpet is its ability to swallow any object that falls onto it. I’m not kidding. Socks, dog toys, sneakers. They drop, I scan, nada. With my low vision, it’s highly unlikely I will spot the fallen comrade in the forest of threads. The woven pattern is filled with so many colors and shapes it’s like household object camo, things disappear when they stop moving. Until my foot finds them as I walk around and half-trip, toe stub!
My favorite location method, devised one day when I smelled a dog turd but couldn’t find it, is simple–I fall to the floor, crane my head to the side and scan the carpet like I’m looking at a city horizon for the tallest building. Eventually, crawling around on the floor will produce the object I’m seeking. But any item, like the carpet, that insists I bow to it will create its own death sentence in that moment, too.
I yearn for wide stripes or a few blocks of contrasted hues for the rug. Not this jungle of color and pattern and complexity that rests before me. I gaze at the carpet. It mocks me, daring me to find the dog ‘s red rope lobster, an exercise in futility.
And it’s not just me. Even Stockton has moments of frustration, losing an occasional small object to the beast that is our living room rug despite his–yeah I’m jealous–20/10 vision.
Recently, after a bout of search and rescue, he looked up at me and said, “I think we should get a new rug.” Music to my ears. Don’t have to tell me twice. Coming soon to Mayberry: a new rug.