Watch the Pupils, Folks

Most everyone who knows me could tell you that I've had my fair share of clutzy moments. I'm not exactly the Queen of Poise. In fact, as a fifth grader I was given the classroom title of "Most likely to trip on her own feet." Of course, this may have had something to do with the fact that I was five feet tall with size ten feet. I'm surprised no one called me clowny. But I digress.

A new trend has recently been drawn to my attention. Up until about half an hour ago, I was unaware that I have a certain tendency towards hitting myself in the face with hard, unyielding objects. Now, as I sit nursing the side of my head that I just smacked with the bathroom door, I realize that some of these are pretty good stories. Which leads us to a round of...

TOP FIVE HEAD BASHING INCIDENTS!

Head Basher #1.
About two days ago, I was mowing my sister's lawn, minding my own business, the usual. After emptying the bag, I headed back through the gate to the back yard to commence mowing. As I swung the gate open, I caught my temple on the metal latch sticking out.  Dumb. Dizzy. The works.

Head Basher # 2
When I was a wee child, we put sod in our backyard. Previous to this was substantial effort involving clearing and leveling the whole place. One of the last days when we were almost done, I foolishly stepped on a rake someone had left tong side up. Now this was no ordinary rake. It's heavy duty. Like, still taller than me even though its been a good fifteen years. The thing beaned me in the head pretty solidly, and I remember crying even harder when I saw the lump.  Although it probably wasn't, it seemed to be about as big as my actual head.

Head Basher # 3
Once upon a time, in a land called Taylorsville High School, there was a little passageway in between the stage and the hallway. One day, as we gathered in the Drama room to leave for a show up at the U, I remembered that I had left my bag on stage. I ran in to get it, and somehow missed Schmid, who was locking up the dressing room. When I came from the stage into this little mini-hall, it was dark and the doors were closed. But I knew where the door was, so I forged ahead recklessly. The bag and half my body made it out the door safely. The other half of my body, including my face, ran into the brick wall. There was blood. There was crying. There was humiliation. Ah, the stage!

Head Basher # 4
Once more we visit the stage at good old T-ville. It was my senior year. I was a production manager for our musical, Les Miserables, and we were all at work call one merry Saturday morning. I was in a tearing hurry on my way to the dressing room on the other side of the stage, in the midst of some project. I was sort of jogging, but also looking behind my shoulder calling a question at someone. It started with "Do you know where the gaff tape got put?" and ended on the floor feeling like someone had smacked me in the head with a 2x4. In reality, the fly rails were down while people tied backdrops up on them, and I ran into one. There was a big lump for that one, too. And it was bad enough that Justin checked my pupils every half hour the rest of the day. Cause I really am dumb enough to walk into a steel pole hanging at face level.

And last but not least, and probably best.....

Head Basher # 5!
I have a small nephew. He is adorable, and has yet to master the art of knocking. Conveniently, I have yet to master the art of locking the door. This is a deadly combination. One day, Matthew was over being babysat, and I was getting in the shower. I forgot to lock the door, and Matthew forgot to knock. So he comes in. Here I am, sans clothing. The first reflex is naturally to cover up, so I jumped in the shower as fast as I could. We have those shower doors on a track, though, the kind that come off. My desperate leap into the shower was overshot a bit, and I hit my head on the track, knocking the door off, and knocking myself out. Next thing I know, I am laying in the tub with the glass doors on top of me. My mother is standing over me crying, and Matthew  is standing over me (again, sans clothing) yelling "Aunty, that was so loud!

The thing that worries me is that these accidents all bashed the right half of my face, a fact I am increasingly aware of as I sit with an ice pack to my throbbing head. The fact that these accidents also happen with increasing frequency makes me wonder if there could be some sort of residual damage over in that right half.  What do you think?

I think I should never work construction.