There really needs to be a word to describe the “class of activities in which Sharah can injure herself, which no one else could replicate, much less cause injury with.”
This morning, I started a load of laundry in the washing machine before I left for work. I went into the laundry room, kicked the round, plastic basket full of clean clothes out of the way, pushed the door shut, and reached for the cabinet where the detergent lives. I never got there. Instead the door hit the clothes basket, which had hung on the lip of the tile instead of exiting the doorway. The basket acted like a spring, so the door rebounded with more force than it started with and the doorknob hit me in the forearm between my elbow and my wrist.
“Owie” was not the curse I hurled into the empty house. It was more along the lines of “mother-FUCKER!”
So now I have a four-inch section of my arm that feels like when your funny-bone gets it. It tingles and hurts at the same time. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a lovely purple bruise show up soon.
But feel free to laugh at my expense; all my co-workers already have. I know that for anyone else in the world, the door would have pushed that stupid basket on out into the hall. It really is just me. How do I do these things?