Before I move on, let me just say I love you. Every damn one of you. Except maybe the anonymous people who don’t know me and just wandered onto this site. You people kind of creep me out. The rest of you, however, I love, and I want you to know that. Don’t worry, anonymous people – I’m sure somebody loves you too.
So let me cheer you, myself, and the rest of the world up by doing what I do best…sharing stories of my stupidity. It’s a goldmine! I’m gauranteed never to run out of material. Case in point: in the past three days, I have….
-slammed thumb in bathroom drawer
-fell upstairs and into an umbrella because I accidentally opened it, then couldn’t close it and dragged it behind me the rest of the way
– broke Sabrina’s car door
– visibly bruised another finger by trying to open broken door
– splattered bottle of body wash all over Wal-Mart floor
-dropped phone underneath car, where it spent the night
– injured the same thumb again when Luke closed the window through which I was climbing
Seriously. Some days I wish I had a video camera, and other days I’m relieved that I don’t. Today I don’t feel real strongly one way or the other, but I wouldn’t mind some purple nail polish for my other eight fingers. When days like that happen, I used to complain and do the “Life-is-unfair-and-God-is-peeing-on-me” attitude. Now, I have come to the conclusion that my life is just one very prolonged Akward Situation, and I’m sort of fine with that. At least I get some cool stories (and sometimes scars).
Take last week. I traveled to the cities for a fancy-shmancy event put on by my department. Basically I got paid to hand out nametags and hone my shmoozing skills. In the car on the way home from the event were the following people: Maureen, my boss who is married to the chair of the English department; Molly, one of many higher-ups in my department; Sister Emmanuel, a 79-year-old NUN who just happens to be a former PRESIDENT of Saint Ben’s; and li’l old me. So of course my cell phone rings as loudly and annoyingly as possible and it is, of course, Andy. I answer the phone, pressing it as close to my ear as possible, and tell him I’ll be home in a little over an hour to let him in to crash on the couch. I hang up.
Somebody asks, “Was that your roommate?” and I say, “Yes.”
Hmm. I just lied to my boss. I just lied to my boss’ boss. I just lied to the wife of the head of my desired major, the woman who controls the man upon whom much of my educational goals rely. I just lied to a friggin’ NUN. What was I thinking?
I’m thinking I have efficiently wiped out my educational, vocational, and spiritual future in one fell swoop.
I realize, of course, that it’s much better to just let the lie slide past than try to explain the fact that I am sort of bending the rules by letting a guest stay with me — not just a guest, a BOY (at this point Sister Emmanuel passes out, revives self, curses my eternal sinful soul, reinstates self as President of CSB and kicks me out of college forever). So I say nothing, and no one does either, so maybe they think my ‘roommate’ just happens to have a very masculine voice.