MONKEY ARMS

Bob was 6’2” … and his outstretched arms were just about as wide; I always teased him about his ‘monkey arms’ 😉

1974. Wedding night.

He earned that teasing in our early months of married life.

We were both young and head strong – not graciously giving way; we were both the oldest sibling: and at times it showed. I was 17, and used to having my own way … I pretty much raised myself. I wasn’t used to backing up. Bob was 7 years older, and used to being the voice of authority to those who were younger. Needless to say, there were a few fiery moments in those early months until we got used to each other’s personalities. When we would be at logger-heads over some stupid disagreement, and engaged in a mexican-standoff in the debate over who was right, and who was wrong; sometimes I’d act like the tomboy-teenager I was, and get royally pissed. When I had worked up a sufficient head of steam, I’d come off the couch swinging. And Bob would just shoot his long right arm out and place his hand against my forehead – effectively holding me back while I swung at the empty space between him and me: laughing the whole time and telling me, “You’re so damned cute when you’re angry”.

Which made me swing harder and faster … and he laughed louder while I wore myself out. Every once in a while, he’d ask, “Are you done, now?” And I’d snap, “No!”

Like 2 overgrown kids.

And when the dust settled, and we were sitting side by side again and talking things out; I’d make a remark about the “unfairness of his long arm pitted against my short arm range” which had had me laughing and crying in frustration at the same time. And he’d smile and wrap those long arms around me and pull me onto his lap – squeezing me tight and chuckling into my hair while I giggled into the hollow of his neck … and I was thankful, then, for those long ‘monkey arms’.

I was thankful for those arms too, that could easily retrieve things for me from heights I couldn’t reach, and from behind things where my arm length fell short – even from my extended fingertips.

This morning, while doing laundry, I sure could have used Bob’s long monkey arm reach.

I was retrieving towels and wash/dish cloths from the laundry room rack, above the washing machine when a pile I was cautiously retrieving started teetering. I remember thinking, as a dish cloth slipped out of grasp: “please don’t fall into the space behind the washing machine and dryer!”

It ignored my plea … and promptly fell into the space behind the washing machine and dryer.

My next thought was: “Oh great!”

I had to find a way to retrieve it – I couldn’t see it, but if it had fallen near or on top of the metal dryer hose … or landed on top of the electrical plug-in, it could overheat and catch fire.

It had to come up, out of that space.

And pronto.

Normally, I would have called for Bob to come and help me – “Babe! I need your monkey arms!”

But, Bob is no longer present in the flesh; and his long arms are no longer available.

So, I stared at the wall, drummed my fingertips on the top of the dryer and thought of the few times Bob had retrieved other errant things from behind the washing machines throughout our 44 years together. Yes, he used his long arms … but even then, he had help in reaching what needed retrieving.

He had contrived a ‘laundry hook’ from a wire hanger.

I HAD A WIRE HANGER!

I could make myself a laundry hook.

So, I walked to the back bedroom, grabbed a wire hanger, and did :-D

It wasn’t fancy, but it was workable:

Wire hanger Laundry Hook. A wire hanger, needle-nose pliers, and a little elbow grease … and voila! A workable tool 😉

Bob would have been able to easily lean his tall torso over the washer and dryer to slip the hook down into the yawning gap; but I am a shortie: I needed my little step-ladder to get high enough to {lightly} kneel with one knee on the heavier edges of both machines (tricky balancing act – I didn’t want to dent the tops, but I needed some solid support) and peek over the backside to see where I needed to aim the hook …

The errant dish cloth ... and rampant dust bunnies.

Retrieved dish cloth.

I hung my improvised hook on the laundry room bar where it will be handy f needed again.

I was happy to have that dishcloth in hand again … now, I need to clean up those dust bunnies: that is not going to be so easy. I have no idea how to get them cleaned up – shifting the washer and dryer around is not an option.

And though I had some satisfaction in that small triumph, I missed Bob’s arms.

My heart reminded me that after he would have retrieved the dish cloth, we would have shared a laugh; and a cuddle with his long monkey arms wrapped around me, pulled into his chest: with “I love you”’s spoken together, almost with the same breath.

My eyes burned with unshed tears.

We will never share a laugh or a cuddle again.

I will never be wrapped in Bob’s long monkey arms again.

 

My cheek will never again rest against his manly chest.

I will never again hear my husband’s voice, telling me he loves me.

Never again.

Widowhood sucks, and solo loboing satisfactions can be hollow triumphs.