I bet I'm clutzier than you.
As you may recall, if you've been paying attention, I'm not a ballerina, gymnast or tightrope walker. In fact, I'm one of the clumsiest dolts you might ever know. My friends and family beam at me fondly and murmur: "Good Lord! Get out of her way before someone gets hurt!"
Two days ago I took a bath. A real bath, not a shower; I was freezing and needed to warm up. So I ran the water, lay out my towel, sneaked away with the book Robespierre and I have been squabbling over, and prepared to appreciate a nice, long soak. When I was sufficiently warm and sweaty comfortable I stood up, because how else are you going to get out of the tub without standing up, huh? Whereupon I slammed into the lovely antique frosted glass chandelier that hangs stupidly intimately low over the tub, knocking out one of the five pieces of antique frosted glass (can you see where I'm going with this?), which exploded against the tub. Pieces of antique frosted glass flew all over the bathroom, but not before an enormous fragment of antique frosted glass landed on my foot.
How do you gracefully exit a bathtub with a bleeding foot while fragments of antique frosted glass litter the floor? Very carefully and not too successfully, I must say. I limped around the scattered fragments of antique frosted glass to get to the phone, from which I paged Robey and Cleo to turn off the television and come running with every bandage they could find. Robey was a hero, arriving first with supplies while Cleo wrestled with Miss Puppy to keep her from scrabbling around on the broken glass. He bravely brought me a robe, washed and bandaged the cut without gagging, and swept the floor.
A steri-strip and tetanus shot later, I'm left with four fifths of an antique frosted glass chandelier, wondering if anyone will notice if I turn the broken side to the wall.
