Don't Call Me Grace, Part 2
I have a serious illness. It's very, very serious. I inherited it from my dad. We have the unfortunate ailment of being extremely accident prone, due to attempting things we are not necessarily qualified or prepared to do. We both like to try things ourselves first. We think we can figure it out, or learn how to do it, or do it on our own. I think we are often unaware that we shouldn't be able to do whatever it is without help. Sometimes the motivation is to save money, but sometimes it's just because that's the way we think. "Oh, it can't be that hard." Often, we are successful. I've performed quite a few tasks that I didn't necessarily know how to do, or was maybe not exactly physically capable of doing, just by buckling down and figuring it out. But almost as often as the success, it becomes painfully clear that we should have gone the route of allowing someone else to do the task, or at least help us. And by 'painfully', I mean somehow injuring ourselves, resulting in intense, real, physical pain.

I'll never forget one time that my dad was puttering around outside, as he often does. He is actually quite a handy man, very smart, very good at many things. He just sometimes takes on too much of a big job before he realizes it's too big of a job. Anyway, I was quite young, and we were in the house while my dad was outside. He was apparently trying to get onto the roof or reach a particularly high part of the wall of the house, but he did not have a ladder quite tall enough. So, he built himself a contraption of sorts, consisting of the ladder he did have, on top of a table, with some other components to create the height he needed. Well, we heard a crash and soon there was my dad at the door, bleeding, in need of stitches. His homemade ladder had fallen, while he was on it. It could have been a serious accident, but it turned out to be just a family trip to the emergency room, so Dad could get stitched up. We definitely used a lot of Band-aids in our house, between my dad and me. I always keep a good supply at home. Especially when Dad comes to visit.

This weekend I bought a table. Seems simple enough, right? My new house has a breakfast nook, so I'd found this perfect little table to go there. It was on sale, and they only had two left. This meant I had to buy it. Right then.

The two tables left were both already put together and on the floor for display. I asked the handy furniture helper guy if this meant I would have to take it as-is. It would be easier for me to carry if it were back in a box. He said yes, I'd have to take it already put together. I decided that was fine. For some reason, in my head I figured if the table was too much for me to carry or manuever or an obvious thing I shouldn't be purchasing at this exact moment, there would be some sort of sign for me not to buy the table at that time. But since it was the last table, and on sale, I concluded this should not be a problem for me to take the table already assembled. Plus, it would save me trying to figure out how to put it together later. It was meant to be.

Of course, I was either ignoring the fact that I still live on the third floor of my apartment building for another week, and I was alone at the moment, meaning no help to carry the table up the stairs. Or else I just completely blocked out the important part of thinking ahead to how I would get the table up the stairs to my apartment. At any rate, I was very excited about my new table.

I chose the better of the two tables, noticing some scratches on one but not the other, purchased the table at the great sale price, and watched as another furniture helper guy loaded the table into my Jeep. No problem. If he can do that, surely I can get it back out of the Jeep and up to my apartment. After all, the table wasn't that heavy. Maybe a little awkward to carry. But not heavy. Nope.

I drove back to my apartment and found that the coveted parking space closest to the stairs was wide open, waiting for me to pull in. Again, this must have been a sign that the table was meant to be! This space was never open. It was waiting for me and my table.

I opened the back of the Jeep and began to try to attempt to maneuver the table out of the Jeep and onto the ground. The table was heavier than I thought. It gave me a little trouble, but eventually I was able to turn it upright and set it down. I closed the Jeep, picked up the table, and headed for the stairs.

At that moment, the moment I arrived at the bottom of three flights of stairs, I realized that this table may have to live right here on the lawn for the next week, until I move. It first occured to me at this moment that I may possibly have potentially made a bad decision. This was a lot of stairs. I paused to assess the situation.

As I paused, I noticed it was at least 108 degrees outside. My hands were sweating. Not good for grabbing firmly to the table.

I decided to lift up the two fold-down sides of the table, making it flat and round all the way across. My plan was to get under the table and stand up, thereby lifting the table onto my back, sort of, and then proceed to walk up the stairs. No problem.

My hands weren't the only things sweating. My back and shoulders and arms were also quite sweaty. As I got under the table and began to stand, the table decided to slip off of me and not cooperate with my brilliant plan. Lifting the fold-down sides made the table more top heavy and awkward than before. I concluded this was clearly not the way to get the table up the stairs.

I returned the sides of the table to their fold-down position, and decided to grab it again the long way, and inch my way up the stairs, one step at a time. It would take awhile, and I wouldn't look good doing it, but it was the only way I would get the table up and inside my apartment, without having to call someone, or knock on a neighbor's door for help. I don't know any of my neighbors. I don't like them anyway. And right at this moment I was cursing not having a boyfriend to valiantly carry the table to my apartment, then come back to carry me up as well.

I took my table lifting stance, grabbed the sides, and began up the first step. I finally had to admit that the table was heavy. And awkward. And hard to maneuver on the narrow staircase. There was barely enough room for the table with me beside it, between the two rails. Funny how this little table for my nook now appeared to be quite large and not so much fun anymore.

I made it a little more than halfway up the first flight of stairs, when the non-graceful near death experience happened. By this time, my hands were extremely slippery from sweating. The slipperiness proved to be near fatal. As I rested on a step, I began to lose my grip. For some reason, I decided this would be a good time to take the last two steps at one time, so I could rest completely on the landing and then dry my hands. I lifted, and then it happened.

The table slipped. It hit the rail opposite from me, and began to roll and slide back down the steps. I grabbed for it, throwing all of my weight into stopping it from falling, hoping to steady it before I sent my new purchase crashing down to the sidewalk. I managed to stop the table from falling, for a moment. Then I began falling with it.

Somehow I managed to keep my hold on the table, as well as onto the stairway. I think I sprouted a few extra arms to keep ahold of everything. The table came to rest on my foot. And by 'came to rest', I mean the wooden leg scraped down my leg, onto my foot, and eventully ran out of foot to rest nicely on a step. Yes, I was now bleeding. But so far, still otherwise intact, with my table, hanging on for dear life to the railing.

I regrouped, and inched below the table, to lift it back up and onto a step. I made it to the first landing, and kept going. If I stopped, my neighbors would have a nice table to greet them when they got home. And yes, I was hoping they weren't home, watching me and laughing hysterically from inside their nice cool apartment. Although if any of them captured me on video, it may be worth some money. Let me know if you see any clips of a skinny girl fighting with a table on a stairway, on any of those America's Biggest Losers on Video shows. It could be me.

Anyway, I continued up, one step at a time. Still bleeding, but learning from my injury. Attack from table = pain. Pain = bad. I inched my way up to the next landing, and paused. That scene from the Friends episode where Ross, Chandler, and Rachel move Ross' couch up the stairs played in my head. Maybe I was delirious from the heat and the fright of nearly falling down concrete stairs, but I paused to hear Ross yell "Pivot! Pivot! Pi-vot!!!" in my head for a moment. That cheered me up a wee bit.

By this time I was shaking. I had pulled every muscle in my back and had likely stretched my arms by at least an inch or so in my mad grab for the falling table. I realized now that I maybe should have gotten some help. But now I had to finish the job. Or live on the stairs. Under my table.

I heaved myself and the table up the last flight of stairs. I manuevered it through my door and into the middle of my living room. Then I assessed the damage. First the table. Then me.

The table had a few scars. This upset me greatly. It was a brand new table. It had just been in the store, not thirty minutes ago. I worked on the scars and noticed it was mostly paint from the railing. It came off fairly easily. But as I moved around the table, I noticed more scratches. Luckily, to anyone who didn't know this table nearly took a nose dive down some steps, the marks are almost unnoticeable. All in all, the table is fine, and in better shape than the other table that I'd not chosen, still back at the store. But having just endured the trauma of wrestling the table up the stairs and witnessing it's near demise, I was sad that my nice new table for my nice new house had a boo-boo.

I finished obsessing about the table, and went in search of the Band-aids for my bleeding leg. I was still pretty shaken up. I had actually really come very close to going headfirst down my stairs. This really scared me, especially since it would have been a result of me doing something really stupid, taking on more than I could handle.

But, the table was upstairs and safe in my apartment.

And thank goodness I had plenty of Band-aids.

C.T.