Last night, I put on my pajamas. Not just any pajamas. THE pajamas.
The ones that I was wearing about fifteen months ago, when I lurched up out of a doze, aware that the timer was chiming in the kitchen, and that I had to get those meatballs out of the oven right quick, so I walked quickly up the hall, and my foot caught in the baggy leg of the pajamas, and I went down, shattering the upper part of my left arm to the point where orthopedic surgery was needed to replace the top of the bone and the ball itself.
Free anatomy lesson: the top of the arm looks like a golf club. The 'ball' is irregularly shaped, which is why when you lift the arm all the way up, the shoulder moves, too, for that last bit of motion.
After we found out that this wasn't just a sprain, or just a break, but was, in fact, just about as bad as it could possibly get, I turned to my wife and asked her to get rid of those pajamas. To throw them away, or put them someplace where I'd never see them again. And indeed I didn't. About six months ago, I asked about them, and she didn't know where they were, or even if we still had them. Last night, poring through her box of 'do not wear' clothes, she found them. I tried them on.
They're a little baggy.
2 comments:
What a horrendous accident! That's my kind of luck. However, it does present a philosophical problem; to blame the pajamas...or the foot that tripped....or the floor...or that unusually thick patch of air you had to walk through on the way to the kitchen...
Fortunately, I was so stunned and groggy immediately afterward that I crawled (literally) back to bed, fell asleep, and when I awoke was perfectly happy, except for what appeared to be a minor ache in my left arm -- soon, I was sure, to disappear. So there was no reason to blame anyone.
Now, in retrospect, it's clearly Bush's fault. Though the invocation of hyperdense air (or as we simpletons call it, concrete) does have possibilities as well.
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