I smashed my elbow yesterday.
It's not my fault. I
was trying to type up my portfolio that's due this week. It's all because of my pajamas. Actually, I blame it on my boobs.
Let me start at the beginning.
I have been putting off writing up my Professional Growth
Plan Year III portfolio all school year long.
It's not that I haven't been working on it; nothing could be further
from the truth. I have been busting my
ass compiling this portfolio all year.
You see, after a teacher has been employed for three years, he or she
goes onto the Professional Growth track, the one that requires us to defend our
professional status every year. It's a
four-year cycle. I am on Year III for
the third time. Year I and Year II are
"type up a paper and hand it in" years. Year III is a "present your portfolio to
prove you've been worthy these last two years" year. Next year, Year IV, doesn't even matter
anymore because we're changing over the Teacher Evaluation System, which is something
I cannot even talk about with a huge knot in my intestine.
I decide that I will present at out next available team
meeting. Unfortunately, it is also our
last team meeting. I've left myself no
options: Tuesday is the day. I send out
the email, inviting my team members and my administrators to my presentation,
knowing full-well that some of them probably cannot attend, which means a
one-on-one meeting with the principal at a later date. I hate that -- not because there's anything
wrong with the principal, but because I got an "F" in conduct in
second grade, and found myself in trouble more times than I can count from that
school year on. In other words, I have severe
Principal's Office Phobia, or Principaloffobia.
I intend to type up my portfolio on Saturday, but an outing
with my daughter and another session of Cat TV in my friend's backyard beckon
me. It is the first truly sunny day
we've had in over a week, and I'm not about to waste it sitting in front of a
computer screen.
This turns out to be
my first mistake.
I have two weddings to attend in a parental capacity this fall,
so not only do I need to fit into dresses, I need to make sure whatever summer
tan I get is actually uniform so I have multiple options for dress bodices. After all, I will actually be in these pictures. My middle-aged belly is causing me enough
agida without adding "uneven tan lines" to the mix. So I wear my strapless bathing suit top to
Cat TV because the cats, birds, squirrels, chipmunks, bunnies, and the errant
deer that runs behind our chairs, really don't give a rat's patootie if I'm
showing a little too much flesh in the privacy of a wooded lot.
My friend and I enjoy some tahini and crackers along with
ice water and lemon, chatting away for a couple of hours and not paying much
attention to anything except relaxing. By
the time I decide to move to the shade, I've over-roasted my front and caused
some reddening to the upper boob area, or, shall I say, the décolletage. We decide to head out for a quick helping of
frozen yogurt and a Mystery Trip around town just for fun (or, as it is
sometimes called, a "Figawi Adventure"). This means I have to put my bra and shirt
back on, which is okay for about an hour until the burn I've acquired starts to
let itself be known.
Yes, for the love of
all things holy, the upper edge of my boobage is starting to sting.
As soon as I get home, the bra comes off and doesn't move
from where I fling it until… until … I'm getting ahead of myself. Hold that thought.
Sunday is Father's Day.
Neither of my parents is alive, and I have been widowed for an
incredibly long time, so Father's Day really is a suck-ass holiday in our
house. All of my kids are celebrating at
other fathers' houses, and that's okay with me because I have a Professional
Growth Plan Year III portfolio to type up and compile, and it's going to take
hours.
I debate getting dressed then decide that my
"pajamas" (which are actually sweatpants and a long sleeve shirt --
sexy mama!) will do for the day. After
all, I'm alone, it's Father's Day, so the chance of company coming over is
nil. Besides, my boobage is still burned
along the edges, and I'm not entirely certain that adding underwire and a
little push-up is going to ease the discomfort of raw skin. I sit down at the computer, get through my
morning routine of checking email and Facebook and the various blogs I find
myself party to, then I begin the arduous task of conquering the professional
paperwork.
Three hours later, I am still madly typing away. It is now about 12:20, and I again consider
getting dressed but nix the idea. I'm on
a roll; a couple more paragraphs, and I'm done.
I'm not stopping now.
Until … until … (release that thought you've been holding) …
the doorbell rings. The doorbell rings. Damnation,
I'm braless, haven't brushed my hair, am wearing zero make-up, and am still in
my pajamas after noontime, and there's someone at my door.
Last time this happened, the mailman was on the other side,
and my pajamas were a little less conservative -- still tactful, but much less
coverage, more of a tunic than the sweats I'm currently wearing. Knowing that there's no mail delivery on
Sunday, I am fully aware that what's behind door number one will NOT be a
delivery guy.
Answering the door
turns out to be my second mistake.
It turns out to be a family friend who was stopping by to
drop off something while he and his own son were on their way out for a
Father's Day lunch. And though I am
MORTIFIED that anyone is seeing me in such a disarray, I thank my lucky stars
that it is someone who has seen me at sporting events where I have been wilted
by the heat and humidity, soaked to the skin during rain storms, covered up
like an Eskimo in the dead of winter, and raging my bloody head off at bad
referees. He has also seen me at the gym
covered in sweat and in spandex, disgustingly dirty while helping them move, and
in a bathing suit that probably doesn't really show off anything that can be
considered an asset. I think he may have
even stopped by to pick up my son for a tournament the day after I had foot
surgery and was heaving my guts into a bucket on the couch. In other words, this is probably not the
worse side of me he has seen.
And while these rampant and fleeting thoughts comfort me in
knowing this guy has seen me looking reasonably pathetic, I am suddenly
extremely aware that I am still braless.
He only stays a few minutes at the door, with me blabbering
away about how I have been working, yadda yadda yadda, still in my sweats,
yadda yadda yadda, He graciously excuses himself and probably has to go home
again and completely power-wash his eyeballs.
I decide at this point that the possibility of surprise guests, who are
always welcome at my house, has now increased exponentially, and I would be
wise to go get dressed and quickly.
Besides, once I'm done typing, I have to go to the store and buy ink for
the printer because it is bone dry.
This turns out to be
mistake number three.
I collect my bra, my jeans, clean underwear, and a shirt,
and I pile into the bathroom to get dressed.
I figure with all the shades up in my house, I don't need to be giving
anyone else a free show today. The
bathroom space is small, and I am, for some odd reason that is still
inexplicable, rushing to get dressed, perhaps believing that if I put on my
clothes really quickly I can backtrack the humiliation of flashing anything I
might have flashed through the thin t-shirt material. I lean over to pull on my jeans, jerking my
hands back with authority to crank the denim up over my knees.
This, my dear friends
and special guests, turns out to be the final mistake of this debacle.
As I pull on the waistband of the pants, my left hand loses
its grip, and my elbow cranks wildly, directly, and full-tilt into the door
knob.
Let me be very clear: It is ONLY called the Funny Bone
because when people hit it, it is funny to everyone else.
For a brief moment in time, I find myself completely
breathless. I have sucked in so much air
that my exploding lungs cannot allow me to form coherent words nor thoughts. I am momentarily shocked as stars swim in
front of me and I consider the fact that I am going to pass out from the pain
and crack my skull on the porcelain throne, probably an apt and fitting
scenario for my demise. Half-dressed woman cracks skull open like a
ripe cantaloupe while pants are at half-mast.
Toilet cover mysteriously closed -- not quite sure what the hell she was
doing in there. Yup, that would make
a helluva headline. My tombstone could
read: Here lies Heliand -- Shitter out of
luck.
When my lungs finally release themselves after the initial
adrenaline rush, I bend over in complete and totally agony, unable to move my
arm, feeling searing pain like I have never known, and I birthed three children
and survived an Austin Bunionectomy (look up the procedure online - it was a
gas … not). I am trying to scream, but
even screaming makes my arm hurt, so I quietly mouth over and over again,
"Oooooowwwwww, ooooooooohhhhhhhh,
ooooouuuuuchhhhhhh…." Like some meditative mantra. This goes on for about two minutes until I
feel my stomach cramp. Honest to god,
the pain is so intense that I am going to vomit. Of course, while waiting to vomit, I realize
that the toilet cover is down, and I cannot move an inch to even try and lift
it because any air movement in the tiny room is causing my elbow stabbing jabs
of horror.
In the end, I refrain from puking. It takes about twelve minutes until I can
move my arm again, and some rotation of movement indicates that apparently I
haven't truly broken anything, though I simply cannot even wrap my mind around
that reality after the pain I just experienced.
I continue to have pinches of discomfort into my pinkie all afternoon
and evening as I am sure I have probably permanently damaged the nerve in my
left arm.
I am such an ass.
You see, this is all my boobs' fault. Had they not allowed themselves to burn and
just behaved their bad selves by tanning in the first place, I never would've
opted to go braless, embarrassing myself to my friend and the entire neighborhood
who saw me on the stoop.
So here's my warning -- Ladies, if you choose to go braless,
even on a Sunday in your own home, be prepared to break your elbow, and don't
you dare tell anyone that I didn't pre-warn you.
You're welcome.
