Clutz
This morning, on the way out to our car, while carrying my purse, my laptop case, and my keys, I stepped into a hole that I should have remembered was in the grassy slope near our parking space, and fell on my butt. Well, more like on my knee and my hip, really. And I twisted not the ankle I twisted last time I fell, but the other one. And scraped the opposite knee as well, so that now I am certain to have scars on both knees, since my skin likes to scar at the slightest provocation.
My sons, since they are good boys, immediately gathered my fallen possessions and offered hands to help me up. One of our neighbors walked around us on her way to her car and said nothing. I know that strangers aren’t obligated to help strangers, but I couldn’t resist calling, “No, that’s all right. I’m okay. Don’t worry!” at her, anyway.
Then, on the way to work, I have to admit that I fantasized about that neighbor stumbling into the same hole tomorrow morning, and how I would totally ignore her when it happened.
But then I realized that my sons would stop to help her if she did fall, naturally and instinctively, and my revenge would therefore not take effect.
But then that made me grimly happy. It’s better to have good children than nice neighbors, I think.
Also, I probably fell because I was dehydrated. Being dehydrated makes me clumsy. I’m drinking some water right now.
Special Message
This morning someone sent me a piece of spam with the following subject line:
feeling loved, wanted and understood again is just what you deserve.
And I thought “Hell, yeah, it is!” And then I opened the email, but it contained gibberish and nothing more. Not even a porn link. Not even suggestions for enlarging one’s penis.
But the subject line remains. And it’s so, so true.
Quick Fantasy
The fantasy I concentrated on this morning while blow-drying my hair was one I’ve had several times before. In it, I’m in Tokyo, at night, in a crowded karaoke bar. I don’t speak Japanese. But somehow, I realize that the KJ has the closing theme from The Big O (anime about a crime fighter, his giant robot, and his tiny, beautiful female robot friend). So I select that duet and take the stage, prepared to sing it all on my own – woman’s part and man’s part – just like I often do in my shower at home. But then, instead, one of Tokyo’s fine citizens recognizes the song, takes the other mic, and sings the male part for me in Japanese. And we sound awesome. And everyone cheers. The cultural divide is bridged, and the bar patrons spot me Sapporo Lights all night long.
Fin.
