I’m going to be completely honest with you, sometimes I do plain stupid stuff. Touching my finger to the hot curling iron, forgetting clothes in the washing machine for a week, ignoring the gas indicator when it gets low in my car…that’s all child’s play compared to the vast stupidity I’m about to share with you. It’s not that I don’t think these things through…it’s just that I don’t think them through.
Walking Two Miles in Brand New Shoes
Growing up I had a pair of Birkenstock clogs that I loved tremendously. Say what you will about their design, but those were some of my most beloved shoes of all time. (Second only to the red suede ballet flats I had circa age three until I got them muddy and my mom accidentally shrank them, trying to clean the mud off in the washer and dryer. Let’s please have a moment of silence for those ruby red slippers.) Anyhooker, my birthday is next month and I decided that I was going to treat myself à la Donna Meagle and Tom Haverford to a shiny new pair of Birks sandals. They arrived in the mail yesterday, and I was elated. I put them on immediately, falling instantaneously in love with their high instep and oiled leather finish. Since I’ve been trying to up my daily step game with the help of my handy dandy Jawbone bracelet, I decided to break in the new Birks with a walk around the neighborhood. Now, this should not have been a problem, or at least so I thought. New shoes: good. Walking for your health: good. Enjoying a beautiful sunset in your neighborhood while listening to your Outlander audiobook: good. These things together? TURNS OUT NOT GOOD. Two miles and six blisters later I treaded wearily back through my door and swiftly collapsed into a pool of tears and pain. And that, friends, is why you don’t break in new shoes on a two-mile walk.
Falling Down a Flight of Stairs in Front of a Live Audience
You may or may not know that growing up I was heavily involved in theatre productions. I even have a degree in the subject. Though I am not now, nor have I ever been gifted in dance, movement or coordination, I could generally handle basic choreography without getting myself injured or killed. For approximately 10 years I survived the stage unscathed. Until, that is, there came a little production of a show called Urinetown at my college. Sidenote: if you haven’t seen that show, please do so immediately. Hilarious. Anyway, I was typecast as a cynical, evil villainous character in cahoots with the corrupt businessman. Come Act Two, the angry mob was set to kill me off by pushing me down a flight of stairs that descended beneath the stage into the orchestra pit – this move had been expertly coordinated and I managed to pull it off for six out of seven performances. Until, that is, the one fateful night when we had a sold-out house and my ex was in attendance. (Thank you, universe, for that one.) The scene came, the moment arrived and I was poised to act my dramatic death…until I legitimately slipped and actually fell down an entire flight of stairs in front of the live audience. I’m almost positive I said “Oh shit” into my microphone, because I am nothing if not calm, cool and collected in times of crisis. Anyway, the show went on and I survived, but not without a new collection of dark blue and purple bruises down my side and perhaps a cracked rib or two.
The Third-Degree Sunburn on My Shins
The company I work for owns and operates several hundred golf and country clubs across the country, and is known to operate hospitality tents for members at some of the major golf tournaments. One such tournament occurred during the spring of last year. I was still within my first year of employment with the organization, completely bright-eyed and busy-tailed and ready to help. “Help” ended up taking the form of yours truly driving members around the course in a golf cart for approximately nine hours on the very sunny Saturday of the tournament. We golf cart girls had a uniform: tournament monogrammed polo and black shorts or skirt. Thinking the skirt more flattering, I donned it and my polo with pride, massaging my legs with baby oil (as I am wont to do when I wear skirts…try it. Trust me.). The thing that I failed to take into consideration was that you are not actually completely enclosed by shade when driving a golf cart. Turns out they’re open on the sides, and even in the front, and when the sun is not 100% directly overhead, it can and will burn your exposed body parts to a crisp. My shins and knees were so badly sunburned that the angry red color gave way to blotches of purple, the skin peeling not one but four times. I couldn’t wear pants for a full week and a half after that. (Thank God for maxi dresses and aloe vera gel.) And no, I will not be volunteering for that tournament again come spring.
Honking at a Car Who Turns Out to be a Fellow Church Member
When your grandfather is the pastor of the church you grew up in, people tend to recognize your family. You are not privileged with anonymity at all. This lack of anonymity is only exacerbated when you participate heavily in the youth group worship and drama teams. This means it is important that you are ALWAYS NICE to everyone. Now, this may sound like an easy feat, but when someone is driving ohemgeeeeee so slowly in front of you several blocks from the building, but you have to remain in the right lane because your destination is coming up, it’s actually quite difficult. Probably my biggest pet peeve in this entire world is slow-moving drivers. One fateful Sunday morning I was driving happily along the back country roads that would lead me to the church, when I came to a red light. No problem, this is normal. It’s how roads work. What isn’t normal, however, is when the driver in front of you at that red light insists on driving at 15 miles per hour down the two-lane road to the church. I know, I know, what would Jesus do? Jesus would wait patiently and extend love to that slow driver. Well, I am not Jesus. And I do not love slow drivers. In fact, I believe that Jesus loves them so much that I don’t have to. Your crappy driving makes Jesus sad, lady. But I digress. Full of teenage angst and a sense of self-importance, I laid heavily on my horn, loudly communicating that the slow pace at which that driver chose to travel was in fact greatly inconveniencing me. No move. No speeding up. I honked more. What part of “hurry up I’m going to be late for Sunday School” did this person not understand? I continued honking, in fact, all the way to the church turn-in…where I was mortified to see the vehicular subject of my aggression turn as well. I parked in the back and sat low in my seat that Sunday.
Please tell me I’m not the only one. What are some of the stupid things you’ve done? Come on, this is a safe space. Spill.
—The Wife in Training