Last night, my husband went to bed before me by a couple minutes. By the time I finished straightening things up downstairs and getting my mug of water, he was laying in bed and watching tv.
Since I’m usually the one who has the television on minimal volume when I fall asleep, it is kept on my channel. That television is basically a Food Network television. My husband though… not so into the Food Network.
When I walked into the room, the television was on a different channel. Nope, not ESPN (good guess though). Not Comedy Central (another good guess). Not the nightly news. Not the Simpsons on Fox. Nope, not my husband. He was watching the Weather Channel.
My husband is one of those Weather Channel junkies. He actually has a favorite weather guy — but don’t ask me the name. He likes to watch the progress of extreme weather — in other locales. He thinks it’s fascinating. I think it’s weird.
As I realized what he was watching, I started to giggle. And make fun of him. I did the big loser sign with my hands on my forehead. Still giggling, I bent down to take off my jeans.
The three years of yoga weren’t enough. My ankle somehow got caught in the heel of the jeans. I started to lose my balance and could feel my weight shifting backwards. I had two choices, and I had to decide quickly. I could either hop backwards hoping to regain my balance with both legs in the jeans but one leg half out, or I could try to sit down quickly and control my fall.
I chose option b. I neglected to account for the large magazine basket sitting next to the nightstand behind me. I neglected to notice how sharp the edge of the magazine basket is.
I quickly found out, however, as I sat on the handle of said basket. With all my weight, and the momentum of my fall. As I knocked the basket over, I continued to fall, and the basket ended up atop me. My feet went over my head, and my pride was lost somewhere amidst all the mess.
My husband, on the other hand, thought that it was perfect. He couldn’t even offer to help me up because he was laughing so hard.
Thanks, Karma. I didn’t really need that bruise. For some reason, though, my husband thinks I did.