Is life essentially ironical? Or just tiresomely sarcastic? Today I went for massage therapy from an extremely energetic young man, who discovered that although my hips are level, one buttock is higher than the other. So he kindly gave me a face cloth to fold and use to even me out when sitting.
I wandered dopily down the street, slightly dizzy after lying down for half an hour and a little woozy from an increase in pain meds, tripped over an uneven paving stone – and fell flat on my face. I landed right on my nose, bled copiously – providential (irony?) that I had the face cloth as I limped home, streaming blood.
It reminded me of the time that our son went to baby sitting classes at the fire hall, passed (to my surprise) and came home triumphantly bearing an ornate certificate, which he pinned up in the kitchen.
The next morning I dashed out, leaving him having breakfast – after all he was now a certified baby sitter. Came back 20 minutes later to find the certificate had fallen onto the stove and caught fire. With great presence of mind, William (freshly trained by the fire department) emptied a 5 lBeforeb bag of flour over the stove.
“What a good thing I took that course,” he said as I returned to a floury fog. Note that the fire department never mentioned clearing up afterwards – that's what mothers are for! They say life is cyclical, but that's a vicious circle.
Am now trying to sit straight, no crossed legs, carrying my (javexed) face cloth with me and sinuously, surreptitiously inserting it under my right buttock every time I sit. Unfortunately. It keeps falling on the floor and the constant bending to retrieve it actually makes my back pain worse. As I survey my spiralling life, I remember the saying, a favourite of my husband, about “ever decreasing circles until you vanish up your …..” Somehow I don't think that would help my backache at all.