|I'm still here, just buried
||[Nov. 10th, 2011|01:55 pm]
This is me, one zombie hand rising up from the fresh packed dirt over my grave....|
Er. Okay, whatever, I'm still spending evenings putting away ghosts, boxes of eyes and debating whether the two year old cauliflower in a jar, masquerading as Gnome Brains, is enough of a health hazard to warrant throwing out. But it LOOKS AWESOME! I'm just afraid that if the jar breaks, I'll have to declare the house a Superfund site.
I've been up to my old tricks - two days ago, I wrenched my thumb while backing out of the driveway and managing to get it caught in the sleeve of my other arm, which really hurt when I reversed the steering wheel. And just yesterday, I bent down and managed to get my ring caught on a loose string at the top of my carry bag. Which sounds like no big deal, except that my chair had rolled over the bottom of the bag, so not only could I not get the string out of my ring, I couldn't lift up the bag so I could work at the string. And I could JUST turn my body enough to open the drawer in which I had scissors, and I got that open and was reaching for the scissors when I got a cramp from turning weird and when I bent the other way to get some relief, I knocked my chair arm into the drawer, slamming it shut on my fingers. Which lead to a curse, and frantic mumbling, which alarmed the colleague on the other side of the veal pen wall, who asked me "Are you all right?" And the answer to that of course, is:
No. Not one bit. But I'm sort of used to it. It's like my body is going for some kind of lifetime achievement award in awkward injuries.
I should give myself a trophy and maybe I can convince my body to retire and let someone younger take up the "dumb, just not dumb or lethal enough to warrant a Darwin award."