ouch and arrrggghhhhhh
The kitchen bench top of my childhood home protruded out beyond the actual counter and into the walkway space between the kitchen and dining area. It was curved and sleek, cleverly stealing additional surface space for cooking prep. The only problem was that I always ran right into it. There must have been a time, as a toddler, when I could unsteadily bound from foot to foot right under its jutting design, but then I grew. One day I hit my head as I careened forth. I would have cried, opening my big dribbling mouth in plaintive wails of ear splitting annoyingness. I’m sure there were hugs and kisses in the injury aftermath… but then I did it again. And again. And again. Day after day, week after week. Somehow my childish brain would not retain the simple lesson that running through the kitchen would result in BIG OUCH.
Eventually I grew enough that the kitchen counter no longer posed a daily threat to my noggin. However, I often feel as if the underlying problem has remained. I do something stupid and the result is generally painful (or at the very least, embarrassing). But then, rather than learn from the experience, I just do it again. And again. And again. I think Freud called this “the death drive”, but since I'm not a psychoanalyst I just call it “being a dumbass”.
In less pointlessly reflective news, a work colleague and I share a love of all things zombie. When she sees me on the way to class she’ll often slouch and do a very convincing zombie shuffle. Being far too dignified and refined for such shenanigans, I don’t reciprocate. No, I wait until we’re in hearing distance of each other and then do my patented chillingly accurate mindless zombie noise. Anyway, she zombie accosted me on Monday raving about a book she’d just finished and forced it upon me. I’m so busy at the moment that I really wished I could decline for a week or two, but seeing her animated excitement I knew that wasn’t an option. On Tuesday she started grilling me about how much I’d read, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her I hadn’t started - so I faked having read the first few chapters, randomly praising the fascinating story premise. She seemed satisfied with my gushing, but I knew I wouldn’t get away with doing that again and so I reluctantly picked it up before bed on Tuesday.. hours later I finally turned off the light and got some sleep. It was just as hard putting the book down last night too. Isn’t it magnificent, and so bloody rare, when something recommended turns out to be as great as you were told it would be?