“You couldn’t cross the street by yourself until you were
twelve,” my aunt likes to remind me each time I see her. “And you couldn’t use
a goddamned can opener either.” I’d like to say she is exaggerating even though
these seem to be her fondest memories of me. I know for a fact that I was
crossing the street before age 12 (maybe even before eleven and a half), but
the can opener, well, that might be true. I don’t know how old I was, but I do
know that my neighbor Noelle and I got into such an intense fight about the can
opener that I left her house. She wanted me to open a can of tuna for lunch and
I protested that I couldn’t use a can opener; she thought I was just being lazy
(who can’t use a can opener?). I believe we eventually made up, and we are
facebook friends now, but my inability to do some of life’s simplest little
actions can perplex some people and by some people I mean everyone, including
me.
I’d like to blame my parents, as most forty year olds with
any kind of issue do, but at some point I guess I have to admit I’ve grown up,
so obviously the appropriate person to blame would be my husband. Fine, fine it
doesn’t matter who is blamed for my deficiencies, as long as it’s not me. These
little deficits of mine aren’t much in the whole scheme of things, but when you
are sitting in a pool of your own sweat with a small Allen wrench in one hand
and tufts of the hair you've been pulling out of your head in the other you think “if I was anyone other than
Aimee, this wouldn’t be happening.” Well actually you wouldn’t think that, I
would think that because I’m me, and you, luckily, are not.
Today, without going into too much detail (frankly, I did go
into too much detail about this in my first version of this blog and it didn’t
work, so I’m going to take 882 words and put it into three or four sentences), yes today I found myself
at 6:30 in the evening in a struggle with our front door at school. The problem
that should have been fixed with an Allen wrench and about two seconds of
patience turned into a sweat inducing, hair pulling, tear evoking scene. At
some point I called Mike and told him I was just going to sleep at the school
because, though I have seen several people do it before, I couldn’t shut the door.
Mike laughed, he thought I was kidding. I absolutely wasn’t kidding.
Yesterday, after the untimely death of our dear toaster, I
learned from a coworker how to broil my English muffin in the oven. YESTERDAY!
If this is not astonishing let me say it again and I will put all important
words in caps so you can understand the ridiculousness of this. YESTERDAY I
LEARNED THAT YOU CAN BROIL AN ENGLISH MUFFIN IN THE OVEN. YESTERDAY I LEARNED
THAT YOU HAVE TO SET YOUR OVEN TO BROIL AND PUT THE PART YOU WANT TOASTED
FACING THE HEATING ELEMENT SO THAT IT GETS BROILED. Ah geez.
The other day Mike and I spent a couple of hours planting
laurels around one of our playgrounds at school. Mike and I had a 4:1 planting
ratio. For every four laurels he planted I’d have one done. Shoveling is not my
forte. I’d put one foot on the shovel to help get the job done, then the other
foot and sometimes I’d manage to stay upright, but usually I’d teeter off the
shovel. The whole time I was shoveling I was thinking “wow I hope I’m never put
on a chain gang or something. I’d never make it.” This was truly my thought
process, not “hmm I wonder if there’s a different technique,” or “hmm maybe I
should ask for help” or even “hmmm I think I better just walk away from this
job.” No I was thinking “Better stay out of jail so I don’t end up digging
holes for the rest of my life.” Who thinks these things? And why would a chain
gang be digging holes? And if they’re not digging holes what are they doing?
Gonna have to google that later.
All I know is this. This evening when I was trying to help
one of the toddlers with an eight piece puzzle, I put the elephant’s leg in the
wrong spot. I then pretended like I did it on purpose. How low can I stoop?
This week has been a rough week as far as coming to terms
with my inability to do things that most people can do by let’s say age six,
fine five. As a general rule I like to blame what I can on being a lefty and
living in a righty’s world. That might explain my trouble with tools and
appliances, but can’t really explain away the broiling situation. I may have to
go back to blaming my parents after all.
Perhaps I am one of those creative geniuses that can’t be
bothered by the little things in life. Sure she doesn’t know how to tie her
shoe, but she can stand on her head and recite the 50 states while painting
the ceiling of our local church with nothing but pudding-covered feet. Or
granted we had to fly her dad in from Boston to cut her steak for her, but man
that girl can throw a mean party. Or wow she still can’t open a bottle of wine
with a corkscrew, nor can she open my kid’s thermos at lunch (EVER) but hot
dang can she ever put together some senseless blogs.
Author’s note: I can actually cut steak and tie shoes. Just
sayin’
