I’m finding that as I get older, it’s best to not leave me to my own devices – I simply can’t be trusted to not initiate a chain reaction of stupidity. There once was a time when I could pass my fumblings off as the quirks of a writer. And they were cute then, really: I could spend an afternoon running errands, never noticing the giant tear in the back of my pants that exposed skull and crossbones-adorned panties and legitimately claim I was just caught up in my head mentally writing my book.
Sure, people giggled and pointed, but more indulgently than maliciously, much the same way you do at the zoo when a baby giraffe falls over or a monkey bellyflops out of a tree.
Nature, sadly, is no longer a suitable excuse for me. Which leaves me to assume I’m either losing IQ points (likely the result of watching too many episodes of The Girls Next Door) or my motor skills are deteriorating with age.
I certainly don’t blame alcohol. Not that I credit it for setting me on any straight path, but it does pour more color into my life. In fact, a recent trip to New Orleans found my guy and I at an absinthe bar on lower Decatur Street in the French Quarter one night, sampling various imports from France.
The bar itself – Pravda – offers a murky nod to communism and Bolshevik Russia with its deep red walls, gothic décor and random propaganda scattered throughout. Locals can be seen skulking in the corners, while the few tourists who wander in are typically eye-rolled out after ordering flames on their American-brand absinthe.
The good stuff is hidden below the bar in a few dusty bottles that are brought out only after expressing genuine interest and saying a few unofficial magic words. Once the curtain was lifted, so to speak, my guy and I found ourselves being served lushly aromatic imports described as “lyrical” with “nice opacity.” After two glasses each, we danced our way to Jackson Square where I suddenly found myself taking close-up pictures of wrought iron fences and wanting to lick the sky.
Clearly, alcohol is not the problem for me.
Yet here I sit with a giant bandage on my ass wondering where I went wrong.
It’s all my fault, of course. I’ve had a penchant for men’s razors for the past 10 years or so, when I got sick of trying to shave my legs through protective grates and islands of sticky foam. Sure the pink handles and pictures of the mood goddess are nice and all, but I’ll forego all the girly trimmings in favor of rows upon rows of exposed blades with names like “mach turbo skin razing force.”
Consequently, my legs are always silky smooth. This time though, my ass somehow got in the way.
I still don’t know what happened exactly. I let my razor-clad hand drop from my leg that was propped on the edge of the tub, I twisted, I leaned, I dragged a four-bladed razor across the supple skin of my ass and suddenly there was more carnage in my shower than in Ed Gein’s living room.
It was like one of those ridiculous “As Seen On TV” commercials where a spokesperson demonstrates how their product will solve the challenges of daily living. Countless times I’ve bellowed things like, “WHO has that much trouble cracking an egg?” and “Is it THAT hard to clip your nails?” and nestled into the couch secure in the knowledge that I way far too smart to ever be the moron with a gaping ass wound.
Once again my guy had to ingest his laughter when I came to him, this time dripping and bleeding and pleading for help in dressing a wound there was no way I’d ever be able to hide.
Many women will wax on about wanting intimacy in their relationships. To these empty-headed bims intimacy is snuggle time, and cooed terms of endearment after boxed wine and a romantic comedy. To me, intimacy is letting my poor guy help apply antibiotic gel to my self-inflicted ass gash.
Clearly, living with me is nonstop fun.
My “to-do” list for the day now includes purchasing a girly pink razor with protective coating and grates and staying away from my stapler … God only knows what I could inadvertently affix to myself.
And now, a few pics from New Orleans…