Friday, January 08, 2010

Dying alone

Okay, so that post title makes it sound like I'm going to start talking about how I'm a spinster and boo-hoo I'm going to die all sad, lonely, and alone, the shell of a once-vibrant woman who had the life sucked out of her bit by bit with each passing day she spent not cradled in the arms of a man who loved her. I mean, yeah, that probably is what's going to happen, but that's not what I'm actually going to talk about. Today I'd like to talk about the dangers of living alone*.

If you've never lived alone, you've probably never given any thought to how carefully you exit the slippery bathtub or whether that noise downstairs is a home intruder who's been waiting on the street corner for you to turn the lights out so he could come in and ravage your body to death before he makes a fedora and matching wing-tips out of your skin, the stylish devil. But these are the things that plague my thoughts, my friends, and they are very valid concerns.

The common American house is a death trap for a single person, especially my house. The only tub in my house is super wide and deep, requiring you to lift your foot good and high in order to get your leg over the side. I swear, mounting a horse would be less awkward. I usually avoid the tub, but sometimes you just want a good soak, and when the desire strikes me, I usually find myself gripping the towel rack for dear life as I both enter and exit the tub. One of my friends has a two-inch scar above her right right eyebrow from when she threw caution by the wayside a few years ago and began exiting her tub with thoughtless abandon. She soon found herself in a big, wet, naked heap in the bottom of her tub, covered with blood from the giant gash in her forehead. This, to me, seems to be the most insulting of any injury that you could incur in the home, particularly if you found yourself incapacitated and in need of help from another individual. It's one thing to fall and get helped up fully clothed, but I imagine dignity is in short supply when you're all naked and slimy from shower residue and tears of pain and embarrassment.

The next potentially dangerous item in my house is the clock above my kitchen sink. Twice a year I find myself teetering precariously on the three-inch lip of granite in front of my sink while I make the clock leap forward or fall back an hour, depending on the time of year. The sink-teetering is only part of the dare-devilry involved with the time-change. Since I am approximately as tall as the average seventh grader, I have to drag a kitchen chair next to the counter, step onto it, and from there step onto the sink. To keep my balance I support myself using the lip of my cupboard door. Each time I shimmy onto the counter to change the clock I tell myself this could be the time the cupboard gives out and I topple backward to my death. I make peace with myself, perform a short ritual of repentance, and start my ascent. So far, I have lived to tell the tale.

Bathtubs and kitchen clocks are quite dangerous, but I don't think they're going to be what kills me in the end. No, the basement stairs are going to have that honor. Steep, dark, and uncarpeted, my stairs are the perfect storm for a trip-and-fall accident. When you consider that I pile crap next to the basement door at the top of the stairs and throw empty boxes down to the bottom, it's pretty much a done deal that I will eventually, one day, eat it to the nth degree, topple down the stairs, and be dead by the time I land arse-up on a used Amazon shipping box. Not a great way to go, but at least I won't be dripping wet and naked.

My great-grandmother actually died from a slip-and-fall accident. There's not much to tell, she slipped, broke something, and then lay on the floor for two days until somebody found her and got her to the hospital. But by then it was too late and I think she died from the shock of it all. Of course, times are different now, and I carry my cell phone on me at all times just to be on the safe side. So if you call and I don't answer, I've probably fallen and am now lying dead or unconscious on the floor. Please come and make sure I'm fully clothed before you call an ambulance. I don't want the cute EMT to see me naked in case I'm only unconscious. A girl always wants to look her best.



*If you are a rapist or murderer, I do NOT live alone. I live with my UFC champion, body-builder husband and our, two pit bulls, three German shepherds, and one doberman pinscher.

2 comments:

Bebe McGooch said...

http://www.elderlyalertdevices.com/

April said...

Very well-written hysteria. ;)

RC/RG--I slow-clap your comment.