Stupid-Head Story Number One
I've been knitting with a great group for the past few months. They're warm, smart, fun. And they seem to like me. This weekend, one of this group is celebrating her 30th birthday and invited us all over for brunch.
I was really pleased that Robb would get to meet this group of people, (particularly the Birthday Girl). But we were having a bad morning. Robb had tried to do to many things the day before (yet another appearance in court, therapeutic swimming, and and errands) and his body was rebelling. He was in a lot of discomfort.
I was sort of hopping up and down, trying to will him into health and sociability, and generally being a big spaz, while he tossed and turned on the couch, trying to find any comfortable position. Finally, an hour after I thought the brunch was supposed to start, I called the Birthday Girl to apologize for being late to her party.
She was still in her PJs, and hadn't even thought about breakfast.
I had failed to read the invitation correctly, and failed to apprehend the fact that the party was TOMORROW.
This wouldn't be so bad -- embarrassing sure -- if it weren't for the fact that this the SECOND TIME I've done this on a friend's birthday.
I am a Stupid-Head.
Stupid-Head Story Number Two
Robb has been working out in the YMCA's therapy pool for over a year, and in addition to doing strengthening exercises, he's been swimming laps. He only swims with his arms, and he's gotten quite strong.
I've been a member of the Y for most of this time (we suspended my membership when I had hepatitis and could barely find the energy to get through the day), but I've hardly used the facilities at all. I finally decided to stop squandering my gym membership, and I signed up for a swimming class.
I love being in water, however I'm a pretty spazzy swimmer. I thought that the time had come to learn some proper technique. Thursday evening was my second class. I got there in plenty of time and even bought myself some goggles. And then I realized that I had failed to pack my bathing suit bottom.
I totally freaked out. All of my gym-class insecurities came rushing back. I had no business inside of a state of the art gym. I was a klutz and a dork, and let's face it, I really was the kid picked last for every single team in gym class. (Why do gym teachers let this humiliating ritual persist?) I was so miserable at volleyball, that my team would opt to forfeit the point, rather than even allowing me to attempt serving the ball.
Yeah, I think I've grown up and exorcised all my childhood demons, but apparently they've still got the power to torment me.
I called Robb from the sidewalk, in a tizzy. He insisted that I stay put, and that he could get the pants to me in fifteen minutes. I could still take my class. He refused to take "no" for an answer.
I sat in the stairs of the Y, and knitted and stewed in my juices. I'm a disorganized scatterbrain who will never get her act together. I'm a klutz and a geek, and even though I've probably cycled SIX HUNDRED MILES since Robb's accident, beginning cyclists dismiss me as not being a "real bike person." (I'm not kidding. This happened on Tuesday. Jerk.)
It was a bad fifteen minutes.
But Robb saved the day by driving by and tossing panties out his car window, and the class went pretty well. I'm a horribly goofy swimmer, but I'm learning a lot.
I was feeling happy and confident as I walked to my car.
Until I felt something fluttering on my shoulder.
I had been walking down the street in downtown Berkeley with bright turquoise bikini bottoms flapping wildly out of my bag.
Crikey! I'm Such a Stupid-Head!