There is seriously something wrong with my depth perception. Or my brain. Or my existence in general. I have issues with running into things, colliding into inanimate objects, failing to account for things like, say, my forehead. First there was this little situation in which my washing machine won. That particular battle was further chronicled here. And, yeah, sure, that all happened almost a year and a half ago--before we even knew our second child was going to be born--but I assure you that there have been bumps, bruises, lumps, and cuts since then. I'm not the most graceful ballerina in the bunch. (Ballerina=ahem. I chose swimming because it didn't require a whole lot of grace.)
Yesterday was a busy day. We had a memorial service in the morning and into the afternoon. Then we had a graduation party which we could only stop by for a few minutes before rushing over to a surprise 60th birthday party. While at the graduation party I mentioned that we needed to leave in a half hour to get to the next party on time. My friend informed me that the next party started at 6:00 pm. I was sure it started at 6:30. I said as much. Said, in fact, that I was 95% sure but I'd better go out to the car and grab the flier. So, in my one inch heels--and I rarely wear heels on account of the fact that they make me taller than my spouse--I kind of trotted out to the car. It was kind of like any female love interest running down the street, in the rain, attempting to hail any taxi cab, in any romantic comedy, set in New York City. She frolics, somewhat resembling a cross between a peacock and a gazelle. Her eyeliner is running because this is the part in the movie where she thinks the male lead doesn't actually love her anymore and she's trying to get away--to go anywhere--quickly. It's just that those heels, the ones that wardrobe told her to wear, are getting in the way of a speedy escape. But dang it if her calves look so good. Except I wasn't in New York hailing a taxi. My mascara wasn't running--yet. And because of the aforementioned lack of grace I did not look like the female love interest. No. I looked like the quirky neighbor who is only there for comedic effect.
I ran up alongside the car, inserted Troy's key into the hole, twisted it, yanked the door open and bent to grab the birthday flier. There was just one problem. I'm not entirely sure what the problem was as there didn't appear to be any witnesses. I can only guess that I got a little overzealous and bent down before I had properly cleared the door. The edge, where the top of the door meets the side, collided with my (you guessed it) forehead. And boy howdy did it ever hit my head hard. I slammed my hand onto my head, said a word I never say, dropped to the ground--out of pain or humiliation I'll never know--and started to cry. After a few moments kneeling there by my car I managed to climb into the passenger seat. That's when I pulled my hand away from my head and found the blood.
Because I am filled with all kinds of awesome. I used to want to be an actress (read: still want to be an actress) and I think we can agree that that is one goal better left unachieved. Can you even imagine? I would so be the girl who fell flat on her face on the red carpet.
It took a minute for the tears to stop and another few seconds to find the roll of toilet paper I keep in the car for emergencies exactly like this one. Oh alright so I keep it there for roadtripping three-year-olds who feel the need to inform me exactly 2.3 seconds before pooping is imminent that he has to go. Anyway, I flipped the visor down and saw that the door had managed to create a centimeter and a half slice in my head. Said head was spinning so I shoved toilet paper onto it, grabbed the flier (I was right, by the way) and walked back into the party. Classy.
"Troy," I mumbled from a few feet away, "take care of me."
He did. And then it was determined by several other adults--least of which was me, I assure you--that I needed to butterfly bandage it to keep it from scarring. So my friend bandaged me up while Troy got food for our squirming children. Then I got to go to the surprise party with two bright white strips on my head which in turn led to the retelling of the story approximately 32 times.
By the time we got home there was a considerable lump gracing me with its presence. Being that we had church this morning, and being that I was on the worship team, I was pretty excited about the bump, bandage, and cut. I covered the butterfly strips with a regular band aid when I woke up and then promptly removed everything just before the worship service started. Troy said that Carly Simon sang a song about me once. But I've heard that song I only remember something about clouds in my coffee. And, anyway, how vain can one really be standing up on stage with a goose egg and a small laceration on her face?
You see, I'm remarkably glamorous.
And I clearly have something wrong in my brain that allows me to continue doing such charming things.
This morning, slightly tired of the same old "I got in a fight with my car door and it won" storyline, I informed my adult Sunday school class that Troy got mad at me and hit me with a meat tenderizer.
He responded with, "If I'd have done that, you would have killed me in my sleep with a fire poker."
"We have a gas fireplace," I replied, "we don't have a poker."
"Because that's my point," said the birthday boy.
Oh, right, it's my husband's birthday. Which is pretty cool. Not as cool as it will be next year when, for three whole months I can tell people that my husband is in his forties and he's married to someone in her twenties.
Happy Birthday, Troy. I love you. Thanks for taking care of me. I'm really glad you were born. In the early seventies. Ten years, three months, and two days before I was. And I'm really glad you waited for me...