Okay, so maybe I don't live on Elm Street, but this nightmare is every bit as bad as the horror flick Nightmare on Elm Street.
Even though Spring has yet to arrive in MA (we still have a bunch of snow on the ground and we had flurries a few days ago), I decided to switch into a Springy purse. Not springy as is Tigger, but Springy as in lavender (my favorite color next to eggplant purple).
We have a large walk-in closet that was a total waste of space. The builder only hung one bar on each of the three solid walls. Consequently, a lot of stuff ended up on the floor. After ten years, we finally (and by we I mean Rick) installed a modular organizational system. We love it! Our clothes are neatly arranged on multiple hanging bars, with several rows of shelves above them. Now I love to go in there. It's so neat and pretty. This lovely closet was the setting of my nightmare.
The purse that I wanted was on one of the higher shelves. No problem. I opened the step ladder and up I went.
Going up the ladder was a cinch. Going down? Not so much, particularly because I hand't intended to get off the ladder so soon. And instead of standing on the ladder the proper way (translate: the smart way), I stood sideways to have a better reach. Of course, that meant I leaned sideways as well.
In my defense, I had to reach and lean sideways. An hour or so before I stepped up onto the ladder, I had sorted our laundry on our closest floor. It's laundry day. Piles of dirty clothes are necessary, right? I didn't want to bother nudging the piles over so that I could put the ladder where it needed to be. Hence, the ladder was positioned a few inches too far to the left which resulted in the necessary reaching/leaning.
I can hear my mother now, exhorting me not to be so lazy. She would be right, of course, but who listens to his/her mother?
The necessary reaching/leaning resulted in my tumble off of the ladder.
A face forward tumble.
A face forward tumble into a pile of dirty laundry. As in my face was the first part of me to land in the pile.
It was a pile of whites. (Translate: the pile of dirty underwear, t-shirts, and socks.)
Yup, I fell face first into the pile of dirty underwear.
Did I mention that Rick's gym clothes were on the tops of the piles? Gym clothes from this morning. (Translate: they were still wet with sweat.)
Yes, his sweaty gym underwear was on top of the pile of whites, the very pile into which I tumbled face first. My eyebrows, nose, and lips made contact with the sweaty underwear. Talk about up close and personal.
Perhaps you're assuming I screamed. Or cried. Or vomited. All three responses would have been appropriate.
Instead, I froze. My brain needed to catch up with the fact that I had not been injured. At least not physically injured. That momentary hesitation meant that my face was in that pile longer than it should have been. I think I breathed in some sweat. I keep reminding myself that I love, love, love Rick which means I should love, love, love his sweat, right? RIGHT?
If only I could have loved it from afar.
Please excuse me while I put the whites in my washer and make an appointment for a facial.
2 days ago