Okay, my doves, I’m about to explain to you the weird plague of klutzy that has haunted me the past couple of weeks. Be advised: this is not so much complaining as it is sharing incidents of ineptitude that I hope you find amusing, because DAY-UM. I know I laughed.
Let’s rewind to the end of last month/beginning of this month. If you were not already aware due to IRL friendships, I am more than a little fond of “The Boondock Saints.” It’s my “I’m-feeling-shooty” movie and I find it therapeutic. Also, there is a wee bit of eye candy on-screen at all times.
Oh, wow if this was Murphy-Murphy’s Law, I’d be okay with its (his) persistence.
Hey there, Norman. *eyebrow waggle*
Ahem. Uh, anyway. I was joking around with my cousin, re-enacting a scene with a folding hair-dryer. I brandished it like a gun, and said–quoting the movie–“Get your stupid fucking rope,” and the hair-dryer promptly folded over my finger. I collapsed to the floor in giggles and howls of pain, because, you know, it hurt. That was incident number one.
The next week, I was cleaning up the floor of the laundry room, sweeping with a broom. I’m trying to do this quickly because I had some writing to do. I was also feeling silly, so I was singing Sara Bareilles’ version of “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” at the top of my lungs, like some modern and tone-deaf Disney princess and not really paying attention. Then, smack. I hit myself in the nose with the broom handle. I stared at the broom for a good 30 seconds in disbelief, and then asked of the ceiling: “Really?”
Incidents three, four and five happened Wednesday. Oh yes, three at once. Triple whammy. It started innocently enough: I got up
right when my alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. about 20 minutes after my alarm went off and stumbled into the bathroom to put on my contact lenses (I have Coke-bottle glasses. For serious). I must have somehow scratched my cornea the day before because the moment I put that lens in my eye there was EXCRUCIATING PAIN.
I want those who don’t have contacts to understand the gravity of this situation. It’s like having a sharp, prickly twig that’s doused in kerosene rammed into your eyeball and then lit on fire. It burns and pokes and hurts all at once, and your eye seizes shut and you flail around for ten or fifteen seconds screaming before you get your head in the game and think “Hames, get that fucking thing OUT of your EYE.” But, you guys, I tried, and the lens wasn’t there.
It had shimmied up into my brain pan somehow and my fingers just scraped over my eye. So, for five whole minutes–which seems like a lifetime in these situations–I stood, bent over my sink, tearing up in the one eye, praying (and cursing) and hoping (and cursing) that the tears would slide it back into place and I could remove it. Finally, after an age of man, I managed to remove damn thing and I shoved it back into its case. I wore my glasses instead.
And then. Oh my. I bring a granola bar to work for part of my lunch. Totally cool, right? It’s a granola bar. It’s healthy. I’m an adult, I can chew and swallow my food like a champ. I’ve got this. Ha! Wrong. I took a bite, got a little oat-chip stuck in my throat and started to cough a bit. The light coughing made me swallow more of the granola, which made me choke a little. Which made me exhale through my nose. Which made a piece of granola get lodged in my nostril, from the inside.
Yeah, you read that right. I had granola in my freakin’ nose. You ever choke on orange soda and have it spew out your nasal cavity as a kid? Well, this is similar. Only solid, and it sticks.
Once I had that situation handled, I thought everything would improve. I’d done so many stupid things that day, surely I had met my quota. Oh, I was so mistaken. I was slicing vegetables for dinner and to add insult to injury, I totally nicked my finger with the paring knife. It wasn’t bad, but it’s like the cherry on the ice-cream sundae.
This isn’t all that bad in the grand scheme of the universe, I understand. In fact, I find it quite funny. You know, now that I’m not clawing out an eyeball or blowing granola-boogers. I think this would make for excellent writing material at some point. There is a clumsy character within me that will be playing around and whack himself in the face with a broom. It’ll be awesome.
The moral here, kids, is that you are dangerous at all times. Mostly to yourself. Exercise the act of life with caution. And maybe a helmet.