Last week was an especially trying week for me in terms of uncoordinated moments. I had to wait for a week to post about it so I could recover. I still am not at the point of thinking these things are funny. I still think they are very, very sad, and I only laugh because they are ironic. Laughing at the ironic is not the same as a good belly laugh. Ironic laughter hurts, especially when the joke is on you.
The following happened (in a particular order. An order which placed these events so close to each other in their happening that I could not help but feel that the gods of grace and finesse are against me):
1. In trying to slice a bagel, I sliced my thumb instead.
2. In trying to toast a bagel, I burned my hand instead.
3. I got cream cheese on my ankle.
4. I dropped the cream cheese knife on the couch.
5. I broke my watch.
6. In trying to serve dinner onto our plates, I dumped half the scrambled eggs on to the floor (I ate them anyways. I'm sorry. I was hungry).
7. I dropped a carton of icecream from the freezer onto the floor. It splattered everywhere.
8. I spilled crumbled Kit-kats all over the floor.
9. I spilled more icecream. On the cupboards and floor. (I was just trying to put the lid back on the icecream carton. Unfortunately, all the icecream sitting on the lid had melted).
10. I knocked over a bag of trail mix. Onto the floor.
See what I mean? After the last five incidents, I spent twenty minutes on my hands and knees with a soapy sponge scrubbing the stickiness off our kitchen floor. Fortunately, being on my hands and knees is the one comfortable place for me right now.
I do not ask for pity. I only ask for love.
And maybe a new carton of ice cream -- mint chocolate chip, please.
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