Well, it was bound to happen. I mean I’ve been walking this high wire for more than 30 years and these sorts of – what – mishaps are predictable. To be expected really. I was seriously injured yesterday. My right hand nonetheless. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to show up at the keyboard this morning. Much to my relief I am pecking. Not really typing and certainly not floating across the keys as is usual for me. Not nearly.
No stitches were required. Ice and Ibuprofen got me through the night. I notified my dear friend as to my impending absence from his inbox. Of course, he was deeply troubled to be left out in the cold by not receiving the requisite 14 emails a day from me. Devastated really. He asked. I hesitated. I knew he’d be upset.
“Laundry,” I wrote. “I have a laundry injury.”
“Laundry injury!! Oh, no!!” As you can see, he was so beside himself he could barely muster an appropriately distressed response.
When my husband emerged from his cave (read: our home office), I regaled him with the details. “You can always file for workers’ comp, baby,” he said with a particular smugness to his tone. “See how that goes for you.” He smiled and walked to the kitchen for an iced coffee. He did not even offer to pour me one. What was happening here? He didn’t lead me to chair to help me carefully sit my clearly traumatized body.
“What did you do?” he said passing me in the hall.
“I told you. I was putting up the empty hangers on the really high bar, and I tripped and grabbed a hold of them and jerked my right hand enough to burst a blood vessel.” I displayed my injury. “Just there, see?”
“There?”
“Oh for god’s sake that’s my wrist. No there. My middle finger. In the joint. It’s already black and blue. And swollen.”
“Oh right. Sorry. Looks bad,” he smiled – there was that smugness again. “Looks like no more laundry for you today.”
Ah-ha! That’s what I was looking for all along. Disability leave. How many days I wondered? Best not to discuss. Best to just tip toe around the hamper.
I looked at my poor, swollen finger and decided it needed ice again. Over my shoulder I called, “I bet I can’t even type.”
He said something like, “oooh” or “Mmm” or “Aaah” – something vaguely sympathetic before closing the office door behind him. Did he just close the door on my pain? On my disability? On me for god’s sake?
Humph. I pulled the freezer door open to retrieve the small ice bag. Well that’s fine, I thought. When he needs underwear, we’ll just see who displays a hint of smugness in her smile?
