Do You Really Wanna Hurt Me

I could adopt this as my theme song, only it would be my body singing to itself. I am a klutz. There’s no disputing the fact, ask my husband. Bless his heart, once he sees I’m not mortally wounded, he usually breaks into uncontrollable chortles as I jump around or grasp dismally at the injured part of my body. I usually end up crying “it’s not funny!”, but the fact that I’m laughing doesn’t add any weight to my assertion.

I once broke my toe in what proved to be a goldmine of amusement for my husband. We were newlyweds and lived in a huge old victorian home that had been split into apartments. Our back door opened to a hallway which led to a few other apartment doors and to the outside door out back. On this particular evening, I was fresh out of the shower and, ummm, still not dressed. I heard him walking down the hallway toward our door and thought it would be great fun to run and greet him, au naturale.

So, off I went. I rounded the corner and was making good progress toward the door when things went terribly wrong and I ran a bit too close to the desk. Have you ever had your pinky toe bent outward, sideways? No? Trust me, it is no fun. Carried on by sheer momentum, I reached the back door just in time to greet Howie as he walked in. What a sight greeted him: his wife, naked and hopping on one foot, uttering dark, terrible words. Oh, my, we’ve certainly had our laughs over that one the last ten years.

Today holds no exceptions. I have several nice, deep papercuts on my hands. Actually, they’re yogurt container cuts I sustained while washing a yogurt cup for reuse. I don’t know how I do it. And I’ll tell you what else, it stings when you get homemade laundry soap in those little fissures. Man! I made a triple batch of that today, and wished I’d made it prior to washing out that danged container. Ah well.

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