After the surprise of last week's construction project, where we had to rip out part of the whole floor structure of part of our home and start over, I began to wonder what was wrong with me. We were able to host Thanksgiving here, even if it was on Friday rather than Thursday, and even though there were "extras" added in -- friends, neighbors, clients -- who we wanted to include in all the food and love. I was tired before we even got started, but was also truly grateful for God's goodness in the land of the living. Any time there are that many kids (there were at least 15 or so), the fun quotient gets magnified, as well as noise and dirt. When everyone finally left, I found dirt and leaves spread to the four corners of the home. I might still need to vacuum, four days later, but don't tell my Mama.
Sometime Friday, I got a text with a photo of our church foyer. It was my deacon friend who always hauls out the big Christmas tree each year. We have a running joke, where he threatens to decorate the tree himself, again. He did it one year and I spent the better part of a year complaining to my husband about the "plain" outcome of his beautifying project. I had planned to do it Wednesday or Thursday, but completely forgot. Since it was Friday, and Sunday was coming, there was nothing to do but do it Saturday. I enlisted some granddaughter help from Annabelle, who happened to be standing nearby when I got the incriminating photo. Even though I was thoroughly exhausted, I dragged myself out of the bed Saturday morning and headed to Douglasville to pick her up. My muggy face showed up at their house before 10:00, and said child was waiting for me by the road. I was thoroughly ashamed when she told me she had set her alarm for 7:00 a.m., in anticipation of decorating with me. I might need to grow up. We were able to get the job done fairly quickly (I might have said a prayer or two), and then we headed to lunch at the local Chick-Fil-A, her restaurant of choice.
I was wearing irregular shoes that morning, so I will make my excuses from that, but the truth is that I was probably tired and not paying attention when I tripped on the curb at Chick Fil-A. I felt my clumsy self start to fall, tried to correct myself, then wind-milled-it the ten feet or so to the wall. I slammed into both the big trash can and the brick wall at the entrance simultaneously, both of my elbows and shoulders bearing the brunt of the assault. Thoughts of my Daddy and his similarly-awkward-athleticism coursed through my mind as the whelps and bruises began immediately rising up on my body. Annabelle was horrified and scared at the event. Strangers called out their concern. We weren't missing lunch for any reason, so we walked on in, and people on the inside of the place also expressed their worriment over my condition. There's no shame like a fantastic pratfall on the way in to anywhere. I wanted to shout out to all the worriers: "Next subject!" Meanwhile I wondered how I was going to drive home with all the pain that was starting to rack my body. Over the course of thirty minutes, besides my poor shoulders, a wrist, ankle and pinky finger started to swell up like some sort of beached whale. After the medicinal application of Ice Dream in a cup (and a peppermint milkshake for Annabelle), I drove her home and limped my car to Magnolia Street. Papa Bear soothed me upon arrival, forced me into a hot shower, gave me several forms of medication, covered me with a warm blanket and made me lay down. With my head buzzing and feeling rather spoiled, I pulled on my cozy socks and settled in for an evening of Netflix and a lot of hand-holding.
While nursing my traumatized joints over the last few days, I've managed to paint the newly-constructed nursery not once but two times. Sherwin Williams Antique White and SW Romance just would not do, so I had to apply second coats of Sherwin Williams Alabaster and SW Sea Salt. I'm done. Toast. Here's a big Thank You to everyone who made all this possible, as well as God, who kept me from breaking my poor ole' neck.
No comments:
Post a Comment