Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
Ouch! Gol dang it!!!! I think I say this every single day of my life. It is rare that one goes by when I do not hit my head on a cupboard door, bang my hip bone into a countertop, find myself mopping up a mess of some kind. I have been known to walk into glass doors, have missed the bottom step countless times, and will trip over anything, often actually nothing. Just fall for no apparent reason.
I once got up to pee in the middle of the night in a hotel room in Washington D.C. and on my way back to the bed walked smack into the wall I had forgotten was there. I had a proper shiner after that. Took ten days to go away. Apparently, this is not uncommon; it happens to a lot of folks. There are plenty of good travel guidebooks which recommend that one map out the new environment and take a few practice runs to avoid calamity in the wee hours.
When I lived in Austin, my dear next-door neighbors would see me with a ladder, or any kind of tool and Vicki would call out:
“Oh no! Alex will help you do that. Don’t try to do that; he’ll be right there!”
Alex, the 6’5 brilliant high-school student, was pressed into service on a regular basis. He had to help me shovel things and move things and assemble things. He was very good-natured about it, given his age at the time. He is really a fantastic human. He is in college now studying to be an engineer. If anyone can figure out how to sustain life on Mars, he is our guy.
This past weekend, I babysat my sister’s cats. I was knackered from a long, hectic week, and it was a pleasure to take catnaps with for realz cats. I did pretty well. Walked into the shower door because I forgot to close it, but I was moving slowly so no biggie. Banged my head a minimum of three times on the dryer door of the stacked laundry machines, but all in all not a bad run on the klutz meter. The last day I put fresh sheets on the bed and tidied up a bit, then decided to water the new trees they planted just over a week ago. On my way to grab the hose I slid down the gravel and did quite a number on my left leg. It is scratched up pretty good in some places, lightly gouged in others.
Ouch! Gol dang it!
I went for a walk in my neighborhood later that day to pick up a few supplies at my local target. I was so lost in thought about how I had managed to screw up my leg on that watering mission that I forgot to step up at the curb. I lurched forward about seven feet, grocery bags swinging wild, begging myself not to fall again. I somehow managed to stay on my feet. And then it was time for the talk. The one I have with myself on a regular basis.
“Idiot! Stupid clumsy cow! Why can’t you look where you are going!!! For the love of God please pay ffing attention!!! Jaysus!!!!!”
After a few breaths, the “talk” calms down:
“You have to slow down. You have to watch what you are doing. You must focus on your surroundings. Breathe Breathe Breathe. You could get really hurt. You must try to be PRESENT!”
The talk is trying to protect me, and I try to pay attention, but it seems to go in one ear and then, well, who the hell knows?
My sister is by no means a close second in this area. She is a good driver, can fix things, untangle necklaces, and figure out why the garbage disposal won’t work. She has actual athletic ability too—can hit a ball with a bat. Something I cannot do. It’s fun to watch her play volleyball in the pool. Laura is very tall, 6’, with a wingspan that is something to behold. When the ball flies past her she just stands there, puts one of her long, long arms out and bats it back without so much as a how-de-doo. If a ball flies in my direction with any speed I reflexively duck.
You do NOT want me on your sports team.
Laura does, however, share my proclivity toward taking the odd misstep and the propensity to shatter all manner of glassware. She was recently on a cruise in Europe with close friends. It was a small boat, and she went to bed every night when it got dark because she was worried that she might miss a step somewhere and fly overboard in some type of watery death scenario.
We avoid costly stemware and sculpted tumblers because they will be broken in short order. I will go to set a glass down and miss the counter entirely. Laura has been known to do the same. You will not be served in a fancy glass at either of our homes.
Her wife Sarah reports one incident where, at the end of a long day, Laura poured herself a glass of good Zinfandel and sat down in her favorite chair, preparing to relax and watch the news. She must have had a sudden thought toward heading outside, because she decided to put on her sweatshirt and as she pushed her hand into the armhole, she managed to punch her glass of wine which sent it flying, sloshing red liquid everywhere. After sweeping and mopping and vacuuming, she still found small shards of glass turning up for the next 24 hours.
Sarah is gobsmacked by this phenomenon. She is sure of foot and her hands follow orders from her eyes. I once entered the gym and saw a woman on the treadmill, running with a beautiful easy gait, arms swinging in a gentle rhythm. ‘That woman is an athlete.’ I thought. As I got closer, I realized it was Sarah. There are a few women at the gym who like her have a physical competence I find fascinating. I watch them with a curious awe.
HALF EMPTY/HALF FULL.
A few months ago, when the old PTSD was acting up, I poured myself a glass of ice water and went into the living room to read a bit one afternoon. I set the glass on top of the side table, which must have been jostled by the dog, so the tumbler slid off and shattered. I cleaned it up, mopped and wrung out the towel, then poured a second glass of water. I went back to the sofa and set it down in the exact spot with the exact same result: water everywhere, the glass in pieces, tabletop upturned. I had somehow failed to resolve the situation before repeating the same mistake.
It was my umpteenth accident in a short period of time. I was near the breaking point.
I told the “talk” to take a hike.
I cleaned up the mess and fetched another glass of water but chose to sit on the other end of the sofa. Success. I have not strayed from it since. Will never sit in that original position again.
When I was a child, I was treated for injuries so often that my pediatrician jokingly suggested that my mom keep me in a cage. I once dove off of the diving board and smashed into the side of a pool, which then turned red with blood. I fell off of playground furniture and crashed my bike repeatedly. I once shut my fingers in the door of the old Peugeot, which necessitated a trip to the fire department because none of us could open the damned thing. Then there was the fallout from any attempt at skating or tumbling or any normal kid stuff.
I am not complaining. I have other gifts. I was and am generally non-plussed by it all.
CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK.
In his last few years of his life, my dad fell often. He was blind and stubborn about using his cane. He would bang his head and go for a few stitches and just get right on with it. I called him “Bumble” after the giant white Yeti type creature from the 1964 film “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” The big, sweet monster would fall off a cliff and just bounce right back up in the best of spirits.
I like to think that I inherited some of Dad’s buoyancy. Laura did too. We go down hard, but always get back up, sweep up, bandage up and head back into the fray. Between us we have the world’s largest stockpile of first-aid items. Band-Aids, rolls of gauze, ace bandages—you name it; we have it. If there is ever a citywide shortage, a raid of our residences ought to keep the folks of this great metropolis taped together for a good while.
A few years ago, my eye doctor inquired about my depth perception.
“Are you asking me if I can parallel park?”
Yes. That’s a fine example.” He replied.
“I absolutely can. After the fifth try.”
I would have to park, then get out and look, realize that I was not anywhere near the sidewalk and try again, then park, get out and discover I was not even close to between the lines, then re-park, get out …. ad infinitum. I could deal with that, but I finally stopped driving because I was going up over the curb every time I turned right. The world is a safer place without me behind the wheel. I am content to just walk or rather ‘bumble’ my way down the road.
On we go …
P.S. I am delighted to report that I will be the keynote speaker at the “On the Move” convention for Los Angeles Metro next week. There are lots of good reasons to get out of the car and use transit whenever we can. There is every good reason.
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Ouch!