“Survivors Will Be Shot Again.”
(Originally Published May 16, 2008.)
The move into our new house has been going splendidly, thanks in part to proper planning and a lot of hard work by the Missus and yours truly. So far, the biggest casualty of the move was when I dropped a photo scanner on my ankle and gashed it open pretty good. This scanner is at least 14 years old, one of the first home photo scanners ever made, if you believe what the Missus has to say. All I know is that it’s a good 15 pounds and needed to be stuffed in the basement, under a pile of Bobby Vinton records and a red microwave we no longer need.
Personally, I wanted to just throw the irrelevant relic away (the scanner, not Chevy Chase), but the Missus assured me that it was cool and valuable enough to warrant a temporary stay in the basement. I decided (quite poorly, in retrospect) to set said scanner atop a pile of lighter cardboard boxes and carry everything down the steps in one fell swoop. True to form, it was no less than 20 seconds later that I found myself rolling around on the basement floor, quite convinced that my ankle was now in three smaller pieces.
Approximately five steps from the basement floor, I pivoted my heel, sending my oversized load off-balance. The scanner started to shift off of the cardboard boxes, causing me to rotate hard and promptly toss every piece of merchandise I had been holding onto. For a fraction of a second, everything was cartwheeling through the air in slow-motion, and I knew that I only had the reaction time to save one of them.
Furthermore, I was also out of shape enough to know that I probably wouldn’t have the reaction time to save anything.
For sure, I knew that if the scanner hit the basement floor and exploded in a fireworks display of microchips, wires and failure, the Missus would think I did it on purpose as a way to dispose of it forever. I couldn’t give her the satisfaction of having something unnecessary and wrong to hold over my head, so at the last second, I stuck my leg out to break the scanner’s fall. My theory was that the scanner would bounce off of my shoe and gently rest at the foot of the stairs. Pure damage control; wing-and-a-prayer stuff.
In reality, this massive piece of recent nostalgia dropped five feet through the air, hit its terminal velocity, struck me corner-first in the ankle, and then shattered into a million pieces on the basement floor. I took a stumble-step and dropped to one knee, due in part to survey the damage and mostly because it hurt like hell and I was crying. The scanner, remarkably, was fixable. My ankle, however, is a current shade of yellow, blue and green that forms an unnatural bulge in my left sock.
So goes the moving process. If there’s anything positive to come of this, it’s that it has been a long time since I got to write an essay about injuring myself.
Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your day.