During my life I have experienced many detrimental spills.
“Oh my God!” You exclaim,”What a sorry uneventful life you must have endured to remember spills!”
Well, my memories are scattered at best. I don’t have any idea why I can remember the smell of a certain event and my thought pattern during it, but cannot recall going to a party two weeks ago. It is very frustrating to say the least. I feel dumb a lot of the time.
With my co-workers and friends I can usually get away with them believing I do remember the event I was a key player in. I have to be careful not to say “I don’t remember” too often. When I do have to say it, I can only allow them to give me a limited number of details. After it looks like I might have a grasp on the forgotten event, I lie and agree that I do indeed remember. It’s a miracle that I’ve made it so far in life with my mask still in place.
Crazy never stops when you are saddled with a history of Bipolar II. It feels like my memory capacity has been eaten away by some sort of casuistic chemical caused by this condition.
Hey, wait a minute! How did I get so side tracked from my lifetime of epic spills?
The first one I can remember when I was four in England. Back then they let small children go down to the shops and buy loaves of bread. I took a loaf from the shelf, grabbing the wrong end. All of the bread fell out onto the floor. The shop people were very nice about it but, that was it for me. I didn’t shop again until I was six!
On Saturday mornings when I was a little older my sister and I would go to the local department store to hang around and get items for my mom. Hair color was on the list on this particular Saturday. In a strange coincidence the bottom of that box also gave out and the dark brown hair dye bottle hit the ground and shattered! Mortified is the best way to explain my eight year old feelings.
26 years ago Emily spilled red artificial colored juice on the carpet that cost me my deposit on an apartment.
While visiting home one summer my husband fell asleep with a very dark beer on a futon. We had to shamefully explain what happened to my dad. I don’t remember replacing it. Did we? No memory of that…means nothing.
Tristan kicked my glass of red wine on our new $1300 pillow top mattress. Of course, it was my side. To this day I still sleep on a brown stained corner.
Last year my phone was plugged into the truck and as I reached to answer it I caught a very full Starbucks with the cord and spilled an entire Grande vanilla late on me, the seat and the floor of John’s new truck. Yes, the same one as in the aforementioned parking garage.
This morning Allison was rolling around on the floor doing something flexible with her legs in the air and my terminator like vision zoomed in on a half-filled glass of wine across the room on a side table.
“Watch that glass!” I yelled and finally avoided another epic spill.