Ok, so I’m a total klutz and I know it. It gives me great stories to tell people and they are sometimes amazed that I haven’t:
a) become one huge walking scab
b) ever in my life actually broken a bone
c) spontaneously combusted
d) been hit by a car
e) fallen off a building.
Or maybe it’s just me that’s surprised, since half the time I klutz out when I’m by myself.
Anyway, the weirdest week of my life began on Tuesday. I got up, took a shower, actually dried and semi-styled my hair and got ready to walk out the door.
But wait, there is a bill I need to pay to my orthopaedist who attempted to aspirate my ganglion cyst [to no more avail than a large amount of blood and my near-fainting spell]. It is neatly magneted to my front door [I love having a metal door on my apartment], I must mail it!
So I stop, grab the mail, lock my door and head over to the mailbox.
I step on one of the round pavers placed there to prevent soggy foot when the mulch gets waterlogged.
And immediately fell over. Onto my ass, and then my back.
As I lay there, looking up at the sky, I shouted “You have GOT to be kidding me!”
This is something I utter on a
regular daily basis. Mostly while driving.
After I laid there for a few seconds, I rolled my eyes upward to make sure no one in the neighboring building saw my graceful descent to the mulch. I saw no one.
But maybe they were hiding.
I got up and brushed myself off, noting the variety of scrapes I had acquired on my right pinky, back, and elbow.
I hopped in my car and drove to work. After I got out of my car in the parking lot, I noticed some stickers with someone’s full name, DOB, and a barcode on them. HIPAA VIOLATION! I picked up the sheet of stickers, ready to chuck them in the shred box because, hey, I’d want someone to do that for me if it were MY personal info laying on the sidewalk.
But, I digress.
As I made my way through the tunnel, I saw that the fire alarms were blinking, but not beeping. I emerged to face my office building and most of my coworkers standing outside.
Gary Coleman decided she would play mother hen that morning and chided me, “Don’t go inside! Stay outside for the fire drill!”
She is large, so I obeyed her.
Lady Criesalot was there [and she actually hasn’t been crying as much lately. until today] and said, “Hey, what is that?” pointing to the stickers.
I showed her and Gary Coleman peeked over my shoulder. “Ah, they can print them some more!”
LC and I just looked at each other and she said, “Um, I get it.” and we both rolled our eyes at Gary Coleman.
Finally, I decide to defy the great child star and go into my office, since I had students waiting.
While we were doing that thing we do, I decided to excuse myself and go ask for a bandaid for my split-open finger.
The lady handed me TWO bandaids, and I walked out. Then looked at them. And they were fucking Bugs Bunny bandaids!
Here is one of them, modeled on my pudgy hand for your reference:
Now, I’m all for colorful bandaids with cartoons on them. The problem is this: I HATE Bugs Bunny being printed on ANYthing.
In fact, the same goes for Taz and Tweety Bird. I just associate them all with rednecks. Maybe it comes from a lifetime lived as a non-redneck Southerner, forced to gaze upon Tweety Bird tire covers and Taz mud flaps on every truck in the county.
Again, I digress.
After finishing orientation, the day went pretty well.
Until it was time for me to go home.
As usual, I put in my ear buds, turned on my mp3 player, and commenced to jamming while walking to my car. I’d gone home for lunch, so I couldn’t get a spot in the lot when I came back: I had to park down the roooooooad.
The sidewalk ends about halfway down, so I carefully stepped into the bike lane and continued walking. I had just passed a parked white jeep in the last parking spot before the bike lane starts.
About three seconds later, I heard the loudest boomcrash I’ve ever heard in my entire life. My first thought was, “Oh shit! Someone hit something and now it’s going to come sailing my way!”
…to be continued because this bitch is getting long.