The Kitchen Incident - A Short Ramble
I banged my head on a corner of the kitchen cabinet last Sunday morning and didn’t have the presence of mind to grab a kitchen towel to quell the flow of blood that had made its way into my pancake batter. And it was a gusher, too. Instead, I put my hand to my bloody head and ran upstairs to the bathroom, threw off my clothes and jumped in the shower; leaving a trail of blood throughout the house.
“Compression!” my wife later yelled. “You grab a kitchen towel and hold it tight to your head! Compression! You don’t run off and jump in the shower like your hair’s on fire! And I can’t believe you took the time to take off your clothes!”
I don’t like exclamation points either, but I’m trying to emphasize her irritation. There was love in there as well, but mostly irritation. And let me mention that taking your clothes off with one hand while holding on to your head with the other is no easy feat. And that contorted struggle with my t-shirt alone should have garnered me at least a lollipop.
I had channeled Janet Leigh that morning; watching in awe as the blood swirled around the bathtub’s drain; visions of my wife whipping back the shower curtain and putting me out of my old man misery with a series of murderous strokes.
And I couldn’t blame her. If my recent behavior is any indication of what our growing-older together will look like, she’d have been justified in having at me with a carving knife. Fortunately for me the sharpest thing handy in our bathroom is the tweezers.
And one could do plenty of damage with a pair of needle-nose tweezers without risking manslaughter charges. I was already in the shower and clean-up would have been a cinch. Instead, she chucked several exclamation points at my head. Her aim was true—and justified. They still sting.
I’m only glad she didn’t see the email that popped up on my phone recently. It was from a site called Silver Singles. It had a picture of some Sam Elliott looking pensioner nuzzling some Helen Mirren looking babushka. They were canoodling like teenage lovers ready for a romp on the orthopedic mattress. I still like to think I have that look, or at least feel like I’m ready for a romp on the orthopedic mattress. That is, until I get in the bed and sink into place like Norman Bates’ mother in Psycho. I turn to my wife and think about making my move, but then the alarm goes off and it’s time to get up for work. How’d that happen? I used to have better moves than that. All hat and no cattle now, I suppose.
It’s just as well. I was 170 pounds when I met my wife in 1983. I’m now at 210. I think she’s relieved not to have to sumo wrestle her way to a good time. But we’re genuinely happy with each other. I love that that happened.
Wiki Commons Pic: https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?search=Psycho+movie&title=Spec...(1960)_theatrical_poster.jpg