Our bulldog, Wonderbutt, has been trying very hard to run away from his own butt lately. He suddenly leaps up, looks at his rear end, and then races around the house, screeching to a halt in random locations, and sitting down hard. Then he tries to bite whatever is bothering him back there, and generally topples over because dogs shaped like fat sausages just can’t do that kind of contortion. This picture shows Wonderbutt following one of his desperate attempts to elude his bottom, at the end of which he barged into Dimples’ bedroom where Cap’n Firepants was relaxed on the floor reading to her with a blanket over his legs. Wonderbutt charged underneath the blanket, then whirled around and glared at everyone from underneath – apparently blaming us for his disobedient derriere.
But enough about him. Let’s talk about me.
The other day, I was getting ready for work, and decided to wear a dress that I hadn’t worn in awhile. I vaguely recalled that it had a zipper on the side, but my fumbling didn’t find one, so I decided to pull the dress over my head. Of course it got stuck. That happens to me a lot. But this time I could not wiggle my way out of it in either direction. The more I tried, the more stuck I became. What’s worse is that I realized during my struggles that there was a zipper on the dress – and it was very decidedly zipped. Which made me feel a bit less fat but a lot more blind.
The sight of myself in the closet mirror made me panic further. Cap’n Firepants was in the shower. There was no way I was going to let him see me like that. There are just some things you can never unsee. And I certainly couldn’t let my daughter see it either. I only had one option.
I tiptoed to the bathroom and got the nail scissors out. This was no easy feat considering that my arms were strait-jacketed to my sides. Even more challenging was cutting the dress. But a shot of adrenalin made this an easy task when I heard the shower water turn off.
Unlike Wonderbutt, I can’t blame my butt for my wild dance around the room; the dress never even made it to that region of my body. Nope. Just my own stupidity and lack of planning.
From now on, I’m going to take a cue from my dog. If I’m going to insert my uncooperative body into a piece of fabric, I’m going to make sure there is an easy way out.
Either that, or I need to perfect that glare that lets everyone know that the fact I look ridiculous is entirely and completely your fault, not mine.
One of my good friends sent me an e-card this weekend for my birthday. It included this message:
I am well-known in my set for my clumsiness. So, I assumed this was another way of saying, “hope you don’t break your neck after somehow surviving your own ineptitude for 45 years.”
It wasn’t until, 24-hours later, my daughter and I were in the car listening to NPR, and I realized that there was another kind of gravity I was supposed to enjoy.
And it involves George Clooney. (and Sandra Bullock)
Now, that’s my kind of gravity.
Don’t worry, George! I won’t let go!