A few years ago, I went through a month-long period where I constantly had suspicious-seeming bruises that I’d actually inflicted on myself through gross stupidity.
It’s story time.
I can’t remember in what order these events transpired, so I’ll just tell them from least stupid to most stupid.
I worked as a bartender at a high-volume restaurant in Arlington. In this restaurant, I made margarita mix by the 10 (or so) gallon bucket. Then, I’d have to carry the very heavy bucket into the walk-in cooler and dump it into an even bigger bucket. A system of tubes transported the margarita mix back out into the bar’s margarita machine. Then, the drain on the margarita machine led to another system of tubes which dripped onto the floor of the walk-in cooler. It’s the circle of life.
Ideally, when you have recycled margarita mix dripping out of a tube, you want that tube to lead to a drain of some kind. However, when they built this restaurant, they apparently forgot to put in a drain. So the margarita mix would just drip onto the floor of the cooler, congealing into a very slippery goo.
So, one day, I made a batch of margaritas and carried the very heavy bucket into the cooler. When I stepped onto the congealed goo, my foot shot out from under me. I did the cartoony slipping-in-place thing for a second or so, then fell backward onto my ass, dumping ten gallons of margarita mix onto my face in the process.
I came away from this incident smelling like tequila and with a nice big bruise on my extreme-upper hip.
Slightly more stupid:
When my husband and I moved into our first apartment, our bedroom had two giant windows. As someone who regularly worked until 2:00 in the morning, the sun was my enemy. So I made us some curtains.
We were poor and couldn’t afford a curtain rod. However, we had a staple gun.
I set out one day to staple our curtains to the wall above the windows. We didn’t have a step-ladder or anything, so I used a chair. But the only chair we had that didn’t weigh a ton was the desk chair. A swivel chair. On wheels.
So I bravely climbed onto the chair and started stapling. When I got to the mid-point of the window, it was kind of a stretch to actually reach what I was doing, but I proceeded anyway. The staple gun I was using had a bit of a kick to it. So I stretched all the way out, barely hanging on to the staple gun, one hand holding the curtain, leaning really far over, so that most of my body weight is hovering over nothing. And I pulled the trigger.
The kick from the staple gun caused the chair to start spinning around, making it difficult for me to regain my balance, which led to me falling.
Because the chair had wheels, it shot in the opposite direction of my body, and I ended up somehow falling under the bed, scraping my back on the metal bed frame in the process.
The best part was when Adam, who had been taking a shower and heard a huge thump, came out, soaking wet, in a towel, calling my name. And since I was under the bed, he couldn’t see my whole body, just my legs, which weren’t moving. He though I was dead.
It was hilarious.
This one is really, just…
You know what? I’ll let you judge for yourself.
I was getting into Adam’s sister’s car, and I hit myself in the face with the car door.
No build up. That’s it. I remember doing it, seeing the car door coming at me and thinking, “Hmm. That’s about to hit me in the face.”
And still, I didn’t stop it, or move my head or anything. Just hit myself in the face with the car door.
This gave me a lovely black eye. But that’s not where the story ends.
My husband and I were moving. Our moving day happened to coincide with a friend’s daughter’s birthday party, which I had to at least make an appearance at.
Because of all that we had to do that day, and because I generally got off work at about 2:00 am, I hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before. I was exhausted, dressed in shitty clothes because we were moving. And I had a black eye.
So Adam and I show up to this birthday party. I’m sure I looked miserable. I’d warned all my friends about my black eye, and that I hadn’t gotten any sleep, and that I was moving that day. But one of my friends forgot to tell her mom.
As soon as she saw me – standing next to Adam – she came up and started a conversation as she pulled me into the kitchen in an iron death-grip.
The conversation went like this:
“Oh Lindsay, last time you were here, you left something in the kitchen, let’s go get itohmygodwhathappenedtoyoureye?! Did he do that to you?”
I explained about my stupidity and she seemed to buy it. (It’s really a pretty easy sell if you know me.)
I told Adam afterward. He thought it was funny. (Thank god, you don’t want to see him when he’s angry.)
It’s a good thing I didn’t have to go to the doctor during this Month of Suspicious Bruises. Adam would still be in jail.
This was not the only time I was mistaken for a domestic violence victim. I can’t really tell the other story, but it begins with me hitting some guy’s car and him being really angry at me, and ends with the same guy pulling me aside and telling me I deserved to be with someone who respects me and treats me right.
Apparently people just want to take care of me.