It had been a long day, and I trudged into the kitchen to refill my water bottle. As I held the plastic bottle against the little dispenser on the refrigerator door, I leaned my forehead against the door, sighing like Al Bundy after a tough day of selling shoes.
Just as the bottle filled to the top, it slipped through my fingers and crashed to the floor.
I grabbed a dish towel and began wiping up the water, which was running beneath the refrigerator. With the other hand, I picked up the bottle and set it upright on the floor.
You see, the crash had caved in one side of the bottom of the bottle, so when I set it on the floor to concentrate on the cleanup, it fell right over.
Most of the water that I hadn’t lost to the first accident, I lost to the second.
After picking the bottle up again and cleaning up my second mess, I stood up. My wife, attracted by the vibrations of someone making a mess in her kitchen, appeared from nowhere, gave me one of those looks, and asked what was going on.
I stood up and, tiredly, turned the bottle over to show her its sunken-in bottom. That’s when the remaining water in it splashed to the floor.
My wife looked at me as though I were auditioning to be the fourth Stooge.
In truth, that’s the way I felt. I mumbled, “Uh, sorry,” and slinked off.
In atonement, I went to the clothes dryer and grabbed an armful of clothes to fold. As I walked into the living room, my wife, who had tried to distance herself from my water games, asked me to hand her the TV remote when I walked by the couch.
I picked it up, walked up to her lying there, and dumped the armload of hot, dry clothes on her.
I was as surprised as she was. I looked at my other hand, which held the remote, and said, “Uh, sorry.”
I was tired for a reason. Earlier, I had pushed the mower around the yard. When I passed a plum tree, a branch reached out, curved past my eyeglasses and stuck me in the eye.
I backed away, jerked off my glasses and felt to see how much blood was streaming down my face.
OK, it was dry, but maybe the whole eye was gone. I placed my hand over my good eye to determine whether the poked eye was a total loss.
Perfect vision. I was lucky. And grateful, because it’s hard to cut grass with just one eye; you can’t get the depth of vision to tell where the tall weeds are. Fortunately, I didn’t have to give up mowing.
I finally understood why mower manuals always stress the need for safety glasses. I kept mowing and looked forward to a nice, cold bottle of water.