A few days ago, I was in the kitchen taste testing some spaghetti sauce I’d make from scratch in my slow cooker. It is really easy to make, although I have a bad habit of ignoring recipes and just throwing things in the pot until they taste good, or until they taste horrible, in which case we order a pizza instead.
I had the big spoon in my hand when I turned around too quickly, and discovered that the dishwasher door was open. I discovered this when I tripped over it and went flying through the air, landing scrunched next to the kitchen trash can that has a foot-operated lid to keep the dog out of it.
I screamed while this was happening, and Cheetah Boy ran out of his room to see what was going on. What I didn’t realize at that point was that the big spoon full of spaghetti sauce had also gone flying, and it was now spattered all over my body, looking like I was covered in blood in some horror movie.
Cheetah Boy grabbed my feet and dragged me out from under the dishwasher, while demanding to know if he should call 911. I was unaware at first that I was covered in spaghetti sauce, until he pulled me up and I looked down.
My poor son was briefly terror stricken that I had somehow managed to kill myself in the kitchen, and the image of me covered in sauce was burned into his brain. He was so traumatized that he had to come into my room and talk about it.
On the other hand, I was a bit beaten up at that point, but nothing was really damaged except my pride. My most important question was, “What happened to the dishwasher?”
It’s a KitchenAid, the only expensive appliance I’ve ever purchased, and we’ve only owned it for a few months. I never thought I could love a dishwasher, but I was wrong. I love that inanimate object, and I’m happy to say it endured my clumsy maneuver just fine.
My traumatized son helped me back into my recliner and let me rest. Later, he came in and told me he thought I should get an Apple Watch. “What would happen if you fell like that and I wasn’t home?” he asked. A reasonable question.
And a more reasonable solution than my brother, who last year wanted me to start wearing a football helmet around the house. The meds I was on make me a little goofy (I know, some of you are asking how I could tell) and sometimes I do lose my balance. I was moving a lawn chair in the front yard last year when I lost my balance, fell backwards and smacked my head hard on the sidewalk. Yes, I had a concussion, and a lump the size of downtown Cleveland on the back of my head. Fortunately, I didn’t need surgery. Been there. Done that.
It took nearly a year to get over all that excitement, and almost that long to convince my brother that there was no way I was going to wear a football helmet around the house. He even enlisted the help of my then-home health nurse, asking if she agreed I should wear one. She just looked at him like he was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. And said, “No.” Thank you, nurse whose name I don’t remember.
After Cheetah Boy told me that I should get an Apple Watch with fall detection, I did consider it for an entire four seconds. And then I said, “No.” I hate Apple Watches. They’re big, clunky, expensive and every time I go out with a friend who has one, she spends the entire time we’re together surreptitiously glancing down at it, in case something more exciting than hanging with me appeared on its glowing face.
Maybe a coupon from Target! Or a text from the son saying he just finished class! Or the husband asking what’s for dinner! I mean, there’s nothing I could say that could compete with those thrilling missives.
I know people who say, “I wear my Apple Watch but I don’t look at it when I’m with friends.” Um, yes, you do. Unless you are legally blind or it’s in your back pocket.
Otherwise you may think you’re not doing it, but you are. It’s very off-putting to be telling what I consider to be a fascinating story, and then look over and see my friend studying her even-more-fascinating wrist. I know she’s not counting the freckles, so I assume it’s her watch. I know you teachers have to go through this all the time, and I’m sorry.
In my mind, the best way to deploy your Apple Watch is as follows: Place it on a hard surface, get a hammer, and smash it into a zillion bits. Problem solved.
Meanwhile, though, I don’t want my poor son to worry, so I suppose I’ll get one of those ugly pendant things you wear around your neck and announce to the world, “I’m old as dirt.” Then, the next time I take a flying leap, I can push a button and get hunky paramedics here in a flash. I’m just trying to figure out how I can reconcile this with my refusal to admit that I’m no longer 17. Suggestions?
