Eulogy for my Measuring Tape

Alas, poor tape measure. It was a dear friend of mine. Hailing back to the days when I worked at The Country Today newspaper, it was one of few items I had that was hardcore, businesslike, and meant I was about to do some real work each time I freed it from my sewing cabinet.

I used it for a plethora of activities. It helped me properly space nails. It suggested whether an item might fit in my car. It proposed alternate fuel methods for the world at large and solved the hunger problem in Almenistan.

Which doesn't exist, but you catch my meaning. This tape measure was useful, practical, and made me feel generally more handy than I am. When something needed measuring, this bad boy let everyone know I was serious about it. With this tape measure, I was invincible. I had great visions in mind, of the two of us, years from now, measuring things for my children as they asked, "Mother, from whence hath this glorious implement hailed?"

They may speak a bit differently; I'm just guessing. But that measuring tape and I were supposed to last for years. Years, I tell you.

Alas, poor Spousal Unit. He knew not of my unusual attachment to such a banal object as this. When measuring the length of a wall to hang some pictures, he pulled a bit too hard. I heard the death cries of my tape measure and broke down in great sobs. My dear plastic and metal friend was gone. No more would the tape roll smoothly back into its plastic shell; no more would it increase the hardcoreness of my appearance.

Through many things, that tape measure was by my side, including my botched attempts at sweater gauge. I'll miss having it near me, a reminder of my glory days at the newspaper and all those with whom I diligently worked.

Goodbye, my dear measuring friend. I'll see you in the big toolbox in the sky.