So, shoes made of ice rank pretty damn low on my list of brilliant ideas. I blame Cinderella. I've been back like a day, and I've already been dragooned into babysitting for one of the kids down the street. She's going through her ultra-femme Disney princess phase, except she's a total nerd about it. We spent some time arguing over what those "glass" slippers are actually made of. I voted Plexiglas, but the kid thinks they're made of that smart self-repairing polymer stuff that the Hamsternauts make their bubbles out of, because otherwise the shoes would be all sweaty and scuffed by the end of the evening, and hurt her feet besides. I cannot dispute that the shoes remained very sparkly, but they did shatter easily, despite having withstood an evening of dancing, going up and down stairs, and fleeing from royalty. Maybe they're programmed to self-destruct in the presence of evil stepmothers or something.
After the kid's parents got home (and paid me sweet, sweet cash) I went home and thought about glass slippers. And then I took a shower. And thought about glass slippers some more. They've got to be more practical than clunky Crocs, right? They'll be just my size, and I can repair them and change the shape of the treads, right? Nope. What I wound up doing was encasing my feet in impenetrable hooves of solid ice. It turns out, feet need to actually move when you walk. It took a while to chip off my ice clogs (should I invest in an ice pick? or is that a bad idea?) and I've got a painful scratch down my ankle from where the screwdriver slipped. And since I was standing in the shower with my slippery melting ice boots, I slipped and fell. I cracked my head against the wall on my way down, and I shot out an instinctive fluff of snow to cushion the fall. Except the snow wasn't quite snow, more like a sheet of ice, and it varnished every surface from the shower curtain to the wall, including the shower drain, faucet head, and emergency drain hole. There was another emergency cleanup procedure, involving my toothbrush cup, the sink, the hairdryer, the screwdriver, an ungodly amount of hot water, lots of towels, some parental deception and a scrub brush.
Once I had disposed of the evidence, put two band-aids on my ankle and dressed in dry clothes, I spent half an hour curled up on my bed waiting for the painkillers to kick in for my bruised skull, butt, elbow and ego. I suck. I suck so much. What the hell kind of superhuman almost kills herself with her own damned powers?
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Oh jeez. That does sound miserable. But you don't suck. =(
ReplyDelete"What the hell kind of superhuman almost kills herself with her own damned powers?" Um, plenty of them. Like, I think most. It's almost some kind of superhuman rite of passage. Look up the biographies/memoirs/recordings of most big-leaguers especially and you'll feel a lot better about yourself. I'd give you my personal examples, but I'm unusually good at almost killing myself and I wouldn't want to freak you out. >_<
...Feel better? =D?