The weight room at the gym has provided me several opportunities to humiliate myself… or at least just keep me in my place. I once held the nickname “Crash” (born from the time I fell off a corral wall and then face planted in the “dirt” of a horse arena all in the span of less than an hour). As a responsible adult I still wear bruises of unknown origin and stumble about in broad daylight as if I have not even one good eye.
At least I’m consistent. At least I have not yet crushed a phalange or limb… yet.
The other day I intended to disinfect one of the machines I swat upon (I know, swat is not the past-tense of sweat, but I like the way it rolls off my tongue fingers). I reached for the squirt bottle, and apparently gripped in backwardsly. I disinfected my face instead. Brilliant. Simply stellar. The man who observed my slip-up said, “Did you need to cool off?”
Something like that.
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