another exercise in brilliance
Maybe I shouldn't be left unsupervised.
The delivery person left a pretty large package on my porch this afternoon and rang the doorbell to let me know it was there. Like the prompt respondent that I am I ran outdoors and inspected it: I wasn't expecting anything, I hadn't made any orders recently.
A cursory glance at the shipping label informed me that indeed the package did not belong to me. It belonged at a similar address two streets over. The delivery girl had just gotten back into the company truck. I raced down the stairs, calling and waving frantically so as to avert her from driving away and leaving me with a largish parcel I'd doubtless have to re-deliver myself.
I got as far as the passenger side window. I hit it with the palm of my hand to get her attention.
Then I either tripped, or experienced that lovely lifting and tilting of the ground that I have from time to time when I've either been standing too long or changed positions far too quickly.*
I rolled and ended up underneath the delivery truck.
The driver slammed on the brakes and made an exclamation, a not very intelligible one, but a very loud one nonetheless.
She jumped out of the truck, leaving the door open, and came around to help me out. Because, I found, I couldn't get out on my own. I appeared to be somewhat stuck in a very awkward position between the front and back tires. My cheek was scraped roughly against the asphalt, I appeared to be dusted with minute but harsh particles of sand and pebble, and my right ankle had started to throb like anything.
She took me by the hand and pulled me to my feet.
"What?" she kept asking me, horrified. "What, what, what?"
I took a deep breath.
"You're at the wrong house."
"What!" Her mouth dropped open. "All that? For a package?"
"I'm not delivering it," I said, a bit sullenly. (I felt so foolish).
She helped me up the stairs back to the porch. I hobbled away from her still muttering ("Nothing like falling under a truck to make your day more interesting") and realized, when I got inside, that not just my right ankle hurts. My left ankle hurts too. And I have a long vertical scrape down my left leg. And now my shoulders and elbows don't feel so special, either.
Is my life just not interesting enough? Or what?
*Of course, this had nothing to do with the fact that I forgot to take mynot-falling-down pills Florinef today. Nothing at all, nope, no indeedy.
The delivery person left a pretty large package on my porch this afternoon and rang the doorbell to let me know it was there. Like the prompt respondent that I am I ran outdoors and inspected it: I wasn't expecting anything, I hadn't made any orders recently.
A cursory glance at the shipping label informed me that indeed the package did not belong to me. It belonged at a similar address two streets over. The delivery girl had just gotten back into the company truck. I raced down the stairs, calling and waving frantically so as to avert her from driving away and leaving me with a largish parcel I'd doubtless have to re-deliver myself.
I got as far as the passenger side window. I hit it with the palm of my hand to get her attention.
Then I either tripped, or experienced that lovely lifting and tilting of the ground that I have from time to time when I've either been standing too long or changed positions far too quickly.*
I rolled and ended up underneath the delivery truck.
The driver slammed on the brakes and made an exclamation, a not very intelligible one, but a very loud one nonetheless.
She jumped out of the truck, leaving the door open, and came around to help me out. Because, I found, I couldn't get out on my own. I appeared to be somewhat stuck in a very awkward position between the front and back tires. My cheek was scraped roughly against the asphalt, I appeared to be dusted with minute but harsh particles of sand and pebble, and my right ankle had started to throb like anything.
She took me by the hand and pulled me to my feet.
"What?" she kept asking me, horrified. "What, what, what?"
I took a deep breath.
"You're at the wrong house."
"What!" Her mouth dropped open. "All that? For a package?"
"I'm not delivering it," I said, a bit sullenly. (I felt so foolish).
She helped me up the stairs back to the porch. I hobbled away from her still muttering ("Nothing like falling under a truck to make your day more interesting") and realized, when I got inside, that not just my right ankle hurts. My left ankle hurts too. And I have a long vertical scrape down my left leg. And now my shoulders and elbows don't feel so special, either.
Is my life just not interesting enough? Or what?
*Of course, this had nothing to do with the fact that I forgot to take my
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