The pity party is over. The streamers are down, the mess has been cleaned up, the furniture is righted and put away. When things get stressful for me, I cry and rant and rave and generally act like a 2 year old who’s been denied a favorite toy. But I get it all out of my system and move on. Unfortunately, my blog gives me an outlet that won’t talk back, interrupt, offer useless platitudes or even tell me to suck it up, which leaves you all to deal with my fun side. I apologize.
But now it’s on to bigger and better things. I promised you a glimpse into my very colorful history with Murphy–you know, the anonymous and oh so cherished guy who came up with Murphy’s Law–and here, my dear readers, is your first installment.
Today’s incident takes place when I was about 9 or 10. I was hanging out in my older sister’s room. She is 5 years older than me which meant she was more mature and thereby automatically cool. Being allowed to hang out in her room was a rare and treasured event and there I was in my nightgown, chillin’ with my sister.
In her room she had a dresser. Actually I think it would be classified as an armoire. It had 2 drawers on the bottom and 2 doors on top that opened up to reveal cubbies that she stored her clothes in with a little decorative ledge to separate the two. For some reason, I climbed up on the dresser. I can’t remember if I was after something on the top or if I was just trying to do a mountain goat impression but I climbed. That decorative moulding ledge provided the perfect support for my (at the time) little feet.
What happened next was something seldom seen outside of cartoons. My foot slipped and I went down, heading straight for a face plant on the floor. Until…the knob on the dresser door got caught on my underwear. I was now suspened 2 1/2 feet off the ground with only the strength of my underoos holding me up. The momentum from the fall kept me moving enough that I was swinging back and forth like a pendulum. My sister did the only thing she could do in a situation like this–she burst out laughing.
Obviously help was not coming from my beloved sister. I started trying to get myself down but I couldn’t reach around to get a hold of anything. All I managed to do was increase my swinging momentum. I started laughing, too, even though it was clearly not funny but the laughter just made it that much harder to concentrate. I ended up flailing my arms and legs through the air hoping to just knock myself loose but to no avail. At this point, neither one of us could actually speak through the laughter and tears and my wailing for help. How was I supposed to get down? Did I really want to call for help and explain to my parents how it was I ended up hanging off the furniture by my underwear, bicycling my little limbs for all they were worth?
At the time, it felt like I was trapped there for hours with nothing to comfort me other than the sight of my sister in tears from laughing so hard, but looking back I suppose I may have only hung there like a slab of meat for a few minutes. And in the end, calling for help wasn’t necessary. I was saved by the low stress tolerance of cotton. With a loud riiiiippp, the seam of my underwear gave out and I was dumped on the floor, humiliated but generally unharmed.
This is one of those incidents that has lived on in our family lore. It’s brought up whenever we get together and have those “Remember when…” conversations. Whether brought on myself or thrust in my lap, I seem to have a great talent for finding myself in…unique situations. At least life is never dull, right?