Proceed at your own risk. Pointless drivel and digression ensues.
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If there were a poster child for the ridiculous, it would be me. I don’t go looking for the ridiculous, it just seems to find me.
For example, one morning last week, I got trapped in my laptop because I took the rug out of my office.
Digression: A while back I took the rug that was in my office and put it in the bedroom because I needed a rug in my bedroom. I originally purchased this rug for the bedroom, but then I needed it for the office. And then I needed it for the bedroom again. This rug, it has commitment issues.
My plan is to get another rug for my office, but like the 29-jillion other things that need to be done around this house, it’s only gotten as far as being so noted on the list of things that need to be done. It’s not actually on an actual list, per se, in actual ink. It’s on the list that is in my head, the one that is written in disappearing ink. (Maybe I should get this rug?)
At any rate, to make a short and pointless story long and pointless, on that particular morning, I was sitting in my office, no doubt composing something brilliant to over-share with the world wide web when I got the warning that the battery was low on my laptop. So I scooted to the edge of my chair and closed the lid of my laptop juuust enough so that if I sat up tall on the edge of my seat, I could lean over juuust enough to see behind it to the itty bitty hole where the plug goes.
Yet another digression: Are computers not the most temperamental high maintenance PMSy things ever invented? Do they not just flake out for no good reason? Are they not just made of plastic and estrogen, sort of like an aging Hollywood starlet?? I think so.
And because I began this whole operation precariously perched on the edge of my chair to begin with, and because I’m leaning forward over my desk, and because I no longer have a rug in my office, my chair starts rolling backwards and away from my desk on the slick hardwoods. As I roll away from my desk, so does my center of gravity. And before I realize it, my chin begins to bear down on the lid of the laptop as the back half of me rolls away — and oh yes, small detail, smashing my fingers which are located between the screen and the keyboard.
So then, to help you visualize the scene: My chin, my fingers, my laptop and my desk are on one side of the room, while my behind, which is firmly planted in my chair, is on the other side of the room. And I can neither move to nor fro.
Because my torso is now parallel to the floor and stretched to its elastic limit, I can’t stand up. And I’m terrified to put my feet to the ground, because even though I’m not a student of physics, I get the sense that if I lean forward more than a centimeter? My chair will tip forward and dump me like a cheatin’ boyfriend.
In order to stand up or roll forward, I have to bear down the full force of my weight, through my chin, onto the laptop lid which is holding my fingers hostage. I am imagining at that moment that I must look a little like Olga Korbut on the balance beam in the opening shots of ABC’s Wide World of Sports. Only I’m not doing that goofy shakey smile for the camera, but I do have lopsided bangs. (I realize that reference is probably too obscure for most of you who were not yet born in 1972 and remain unawares of the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat. And yet I can’t stop myself.)
Just then I hear beeeeeeeep boop which translates to BUH-bye! My computer laughed snidely in my face and then died. Oh phooey! I say — or something similar to that.
I am left with no options. The computer gods must exact their pound of flesh, specifically the flesh that is wrapped around my fingers. So I give in, sacrifice my fingers and pull myself up. By my chin.
I then jump quickly to my feet, and clad in my hot pink chenille robe, I do the silent scream while hopping around and shaking my bruised and battered fingers like a crazy Indian in some bizarre ceremonial campfire dance.
And that is the picture I’m going to submit for the poster.