One of my daughters observed that I got new hips just in time. In common with the other ladies of this household, she's probably right.
I was up late tonight, trying to wrap up enough tasks to make for a relaxing Sunday. I'd left my laptop running in the living room. The lights were off there, but there was plenty of illumination from the doorway. I crossed the room, turned, sat in the chair I've been using, and moved it back.
I've had that chair for quite a few years now. Almost ten, I think. It's one of those inexpensive stackable things you see in front of convenience stores during summer months. Quite comfortable.
The first sign of trouble was a distinct, sharp sound: emanating from where the right rear leg of the chair had been.
That chair leg was now pursuing an independent career as a sort of kinetic art project.
The rest of the chair, with me on top, toppled backwards into the southwest corner of the living room until we met the floor and, in my case, the south wall.
At that point my eldest daughter, whose current residence is in this house, and who at that point was the closest to me, asked me if I was all right.
A reasonable question, deserving a reasonable answer. I abandoned my contemplation of the dark living room's shadow-shrouded ceiling, and answered that I was okay, but could use some help.
My wife and second-eldest daughter arrived to view the wreckage not much more than a minute later than the oldest daughter. Someone (I suspect it was my wife) had the presence of mind to turn on the light.
The chair's three remaining legs, together with my flip-flop-clad feet, blocked direct access to me, although I could extend my arms far enough for them to grab. After a well-intentioned, but doomed, effort to hoist me out by using my seat as a fulcrum, I suggested an alternate plan.
My wife grabbed one ankle, my second-oldest daughter grabbed the other, and they hauled me and the chair out of the corner like an oversize grain sack on a pallet.
That left me with enough room to roll out of the chair and get to my feet.
My oldest daughter brightly observed that my movements resembled those of a beached walrus.
I love my family. They put up with me, and I appreciate that.
What do the new hips have to do with this? I was able to move after getting dragged out, and I didn't scream once.
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5 comments:
You write, "The chair's three remaining legs, together with my flip-flop-clad feet, blocked direct access to me, although I could extend my arms far enough for them to grab." That's the point at which I could really feel for you---and laugh. That particular thing hasn't happened to me, but surely other things I've forgotten that make fatherhood and domestic life look a lot less dignified than it appeared in the old sit-coms. ;-)
I could not help but laugh when I read this. By any chance did they take photos?
Alas! No photos were taken!
Thanks for the sympathy: and for the laughter!
I have to laugh even though I am not at a point to need mechanical joints I have collapsed a chair and been in a similar situation. You have to laugh or you cry.
And don't forget screaming.
But, laughing is more fun.
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