2011 February »

I was running short on time as usual, so instead of asking a store associate for assistance, I tried to stretch my 5’4″ frame to reach the containers on the top shelf. Stepping on the bottom shelf, stretching my arm as far as it could go, I was just touching the front of the container with my fingertips. Stretching, reaching, stretching, the container spun round but not closer. Without really thinking it through, and just wanting the item, I jumped an inch or so off the bottom shelf, grabbed the bottle, and of course came crashing down on my ass in the middle of the aisle. Wearing wet snow boots, the skinny metal lip of the bottom shelf gave me not a moment of traction; so obviously I fell flat on my ass. Falling down would have been bad enough but when I grabbed the bottle I also knocked several other items from the shelf that wobbled and toppled, almost like dominoes, from nearly six feet above me, landing around me and even a few on my right leg and hand.

I sat, stunned by my own idiocy for a moment, surrounded by the kind of mess I’d expect from my three year old. I felt fortunate in that at least I was alone in the mess. I hopped to my feet, shook my hand which hurt from being hit with the falling bottles, and began to reach to clean up the mess when a small team (there were three) of store associates rounded the corner with great speed. As I began to apologize for the mess and explain nothing had broken (thank God for plastic), they began to assess my condition.

“Miss, are you okay? Did you hit your head? Are you injured? Does anything hurt?” the apparent leader of the pack questioned.

With my face presumably the deepest shade of red humanly possible, I replied, “I’m really very sorry; I thought I could reach the top shelf. Unfortunately, I’m about an inch too short and tried to get it down in a very poorly thought out plan that required some level of skill and athleticism both which I’m clearly lacking.”

The youngest of the group snickered at my lighthearted response, but was quickly silenced by a stern look from the leader. “Miss, I think you should sit down while I assess the situation.” In my mind, for a moment, what I heard was “Miss, I think you’re an ass. Sit Down.”

“Really, I’m fine,” I persisted. “Please let me clean this up and be on my way. Seriously, I’m sorry and I’m fine. I’m also in a hurry.”

“Are you sure you aren’t injured? We can call a ambulance,” he said in a very concerned voice.

“Please, please, please do not do that,” I said noticing shoppers walking slowly past the aisle and trying to determine the cause of the disturbance. “I am totally fine aside now from being extremely embarrassed. I’d love to pick up my mess here and go. Please.”

“We’ve got it, Miss.” the leader said still looking at me like I was going to lose consciousness at any moment. He pointed at the mess and the other two employees began to pick up the items. I bent over too, still feeling embarrassed , but just wanting to remove the evidence of my clumsiness and move on with my shopping trip life at this point.

With the last of the bottles being placed back on the shelf by the tallest of the three, I quickly remembered why this event happened in the first place. “Shoot!” I exclaimed. “Can you hand me one of those bottles right there?” I asked. “That’s what i was reaching for in the first place,” I explained pointing my crooked finger.

“Holy crap! Your hand!” the younger employee said. All eyes were on my red and crooked finger still extended and pointing at the bottle that was still so close, yet so far away.

“Oh, a bottle may have hit it, but I’m fine really. It doesn’t even hurt,” I said nonchalantly, tucking my hand behind my back.

“No, no! Your finger was all crooked! I think you broke it, seriously!” he exlaimed rather loudly.

“I knew it!” the leader spoke out. “Miss, let’s go to the office so I can…”

I abruptly cut him off. “Listen, listen! Calm down. My finger is not broken. I’m double jointed.”

Blank stares.

“Seriously, fellas. My hands are double jointed. I’m fine, so if you could just hand me the bottle….”

They still just stood there looking at me and I knew if I were ever going to get out of there, I was going to have to give a demonstration. So I did. And just like when I was in grade school the “boys” said “ewwww” and “ahhhhh” and thought it was “gross and kinda awesome” as the youngest employee so eloquently stated.

So I may not be very clever, I may have very poorly planned and executed plans, and my athleticism is obviously lacking, but at least I have side show fingers that never seem to fail.

This is my normal

This is what the store employee saw. I wanted something up and to the left, so I pointed to it.

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I hate when people point out that I have big ones. Obviously, I’m aware; they are on my body after all.

Although, I cannot blame my kids for this body condition; unlike many other things that are going wrong with my body such as my Tom Selleck Mustache, gray hair and fine lines/wrinkles, my big ones have been… well, big, for quite some time. I can even recall people speaking, often in hushed voices, about my big ones since I was in my early teens.

At this point, I can’t even tell you their exact size. To be honest, I’m not sure I want to know. My big ones cause certain people to stare, look longer than I feel is really necessary, and have been the centerpiece of some uncomfortable situations. On one occasion, someone called an “associate” over to take a look. How awkward! Are my big ones that noteworthy? Even after I had my children, my big ones have been referred to as:

Impressive
Well above average
Massive
Jumbo
Colossal
Plump
Much more voluminous than expected

There really isn’t anything I can do about it now. They look large whether I’m wearing a turtleneck or a V-Cut. My big ones appear massive in any kind of light. Since I can’t attribute this to pregnancy/hormones/nursing, I guess it could have a genetic link. At this point, even after diet and exercise, they remain over-sized, and I suppose the only way to reduce their girth would be through surgery.

“Here we go again,” I thought. Today, upon meeting a doctor for the first time, he even took an extra long look. “I know this may feel a bit awkward, but hold still just a moment longer,” he said as he studied my big ones. My face felt flushed and I felt more than just a little awkward as this so called ‘doctor’ examined my big ones oh so thoroughly. I would have assumed that since he was a doctor (and a man of his age), he would have seen his fair share of big ones, and wouldn’t need to hold such a lingering glance at mine. Finally, his exam concluded but not before he gently rubbed all over them. This motion actually made me feel nauseous for a moment.

“I should ask to see this guys diploma,” I thought. “Was such a comprehensive rub-down of my big ones really that necessary? This guy probably could have made a diagnosis just by looking at me. He probably gets some sick pleasure from getting all up on someone’s big ones like that,” I silently contemplated. “This guy’s first name could be ‘Doctor’ for all I know. I wonder where he went to medical school…” but then my inner dialogue was cut short.

“There,” he said pulling his hands away, “you’re all finished.”

“Great,” I said looking at the ‘Doctor’ suspiciously.

“We’ll get the results of your throat culture in a few minutes. Has anyone ever told you that you should have had your tonsils out a long time ago?” he questioned. “They are some of the biggest ones I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s been mentioned once or twice,” I casually replied.

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Double Jointed

Big Ones

Wordless Wednesday- Animal Print Edition