I know I’m a Klutz. I also know why I’m a klutz. It’s mostly because I’m not paying attention to what I’m doing – a problem I assume most Over-Thinkers are familiar with. I walk forward while looking backward, trip over threads, bread crumbs, dandelion fluff, or forget I’m carrying something in my right hand when I pick something up with my left hand. The carnage is usually contained to spilled liquids or broken glass, but occasionally I do manage minor body injuries. Having said that, I admit that what happened two days ago was monumental, even for me. And I wasn’t even distracted.
I was finishing off the final touches to my year-end books when there was a knock at the door. Usually, I just bellow for whoever it is to come in but I was feeling good for accomplishing the “Worst Task In The Modern World” and thought I would actually go open the door. I twirled my office chair around in a sassy/breezy move and stood up enthusiastically with a welcoming smile already on my face.
My industrial, 3-meter long Door Mat* said, “Not today, Lady! Ha HA!!” and lifted its edge just enough for my slipper to catch.
Time…slowed…down.
No way. You aren’t doing this now, are you? I thought we talked about being aware of your surroundings, taking that extra little second to lift your feet? Have you forgotten already?
No, I haven’t forgotten exactly. I was just so happy! What’s the harm in a little sassiness and breeziness? People do that all the time! It’s not like I was tap dancing.
‘People’ can do sassiness and breeziness. You cannot. Ever. And, just so you don’t forget, here is a little pain to make the lesson stick.
Again?! Why are you always using Pain as your main Teaching Tool? We aren’t cavemen anymore, you know. And would it kill you to get my arms to take up some sort of defensive position so my face doesn’t take the brunt of your abuse?
No. Your arms are stupid. The best I can do is get your knees between your industrial Door Mat and your face.
My arms aren’t stupid. They are traitorous bastards that only think of themselves and this isn’t the first time they have betrayed me. And if my knees are the best you can do, I suppose I’m at your mercy, but I will be lodging a complaint about your incompetence. Just so you know.
Oh! You should also know that your centre of gravity is such that your knees can’t completely save you. Your shoulder is going to ram into that shoe rack and your face is going to smear itself across the bottom third of the door.
Seriously?! It’s 3 meters from here to the door. I’m going to skid, aren’t I?
At least once. Maybe more. It depends on your knees, really.
I don’t suppose you would reconsider, would you?
Nope.
Fuck.
I started shouting with annoyance before I actually came to a complete stop and the second syllable was slightly incomprehensible because half of my face was squished against the door.
GEEZUS!!!
Before I could assess the damage, a small voice on the other side of the door said…..
“Um….are you okay?!”
“Yes!! I’m fine! Geezus!” I had forgotten all about this guy in the 2 seconds it took me to crash – deafeningly I assume – into the door.
“Are you sure? Do you want me to get someone?”
“NO! I’m fine! What do you even need?”
“Umm…I’m here to look at my sled. Your husband is working on it. He called me to come and look at what he found.”
Grunt. “Go through that white door behind you. He’s in there!”
“Okay. You’re sure you don’t need any help?”
“NO!” Why won’t he just leave already? Gawd!
I pushed myself into a sitting position and took stock. The shoulder took a good hit, as did my face – not a bruising kind of hit, just an annoying kind of hit – but the winner in this encounter was my left knee. I pulled up my pant leg and saw the skin peeled off in two places. Because of the skidding, I suppose.
Oooo…that looks painful.
It is. And I’m not talking to you right now.
When The Viking came in the house an hour or so later I asked if the customer mentioned anything. He said, no, why? I pulled up my pant leg.
The slight scraping off of skin had, by now, turned into two huge, bloody scrapes that were irritated by my pants which was just as well because I was irritated, too. I was slightly gratified that the amount of pain was equal to the wound itself because most of the time that doesn’t happen – it just hurts like hell but doesn’t even show a mark for a small amount of pity.
Typically, The Viking said, “What the fuck did you do?”
I pointed at the irrational Door Mat and then stomped on it for good measure. “This Door Mat has to go! It’s a death trap!”
To prove that I was definitely not a Sissy, I plastered a couple of band-aides on the scrapes and called it a day.
Fast forward to last night. Those damned scrapes were killing me so I decided to take off the band-aides and have a look-see.
GEEZUS!!
They were actually getting infected and the band-aides were stuck to the scrapes so I ended up pulling even more skin off!
In case any of you are wondering…..The Viking is a TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE nurse! He started rubbing the scrapes with a vigor reminiscent of cleaning soap scum off a tub with a cotton pad only slightly moistened with peroxide. I howled, he told me to clench my teeth, I turned gray and considered passing out, he called me a baby, I called him a dirty, miserable rat bastard, he grunted, I grabbed the bottle of peroxide and just poured it on the scrape which started foaming like crazy and he howled at the waste of perfectly good peroxide.
Fast forward to tonight.
I’m going to survive. It was touch and go there for a while but apparently, The Viking’s cruel and unusual bedside treatments were as successful as they were painful. Don’t tell him that though – he’ll become insufferable.
*It saves my floors from customers’ shoes.