Reality continues to ruin my life

I’ve always had a tough time with Reality, especially Reality with a capital R. Too often, it simply doesn’t coincide with my personal vision of how things should be. Or rather, how I would like them to be.

Snow, for instance. In the imaginary universe in which I spend most of my time, snow doesn’t exist. Here in my La-La Land the sun is always shining, the beach is always open and girls half my age feel comfortable playing volleyball in swimsuits that provide, at best, dubious coverage.

I’ve heard of faraway lands like California and Florida where this is actually the case, but around here … not so much. Not in December, anyway. 

All because of Reality.

Over the years I’ve grown used to Reality rearing its ugly, rational head over things like algebra, snow, vegetables, deep-fried food, exercise and a host of other things I either love or hate. In each case, Reality steadfastly contradicts my “vision.”

But yesterday morning, Reality laid a one-two punch on me that sent me reeling. Literally. And to add indignity to injury, I was buck naked when it all went down.

I slipped climbing into the shower. In all fairness to myself, the tub was slipperier than a wet ice skating rink, thanks to the baby oil I had spilled in there the previous day and then failed to clean up properly.

I had one foot in the tub and one out when it happened. The foot in the tub shot out from under me like a nitro-burning dragster getting the green light. As I flew backward, I grabbed the towel rack, which immediately detached itself in a shower of drywall dust.

Instinctively, my other hand clamped onto the shower rod, which was designed to hold the weight of a shower curtain, not mine. It bent in half and followed me and the towel rack toward the floor.

On the way there — seemingly all in slow motion — my back whacked soundly against the toilet, my head conked the sink and the big toe of my right foot (the one that had slipped) whumphed against the wall. The toilet lid was mercifully closed, but it still hurt like a mutha.

Lori wasn’t home at the time, so there were no witnesses to the fiery stream of profanity that exited my mouth like flame from a dragon’s gaping maw.

All of a sudden that little old lady from the “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” commercial seemed a whole lot less funny than she had just seconds earlier.

The profanity eventually tapered off. I lay there, beneath the towel rack, towels, shower rod, shower curtain. The ceiling fan revolved contentedly on its circular journey as water from the shower sprayed past its usual boundaries and into my upturned face.

In La-La Land, the sun is shining, the beach is open, and I’m far too young and nimble to slip climbing into the damn shower.

But in Reality...

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273