“Brad, have you seen my eyeglass prescription?”
“Remember? You accidentally kicked it under the radiator.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s okay, I can see pretty well with my old glasses.”
“Seriously? You’re not even going to try and retrieve it?”
“You know it’s too difficult to get back up from the floor.”
“I get that. Gravity hurts.”
I hate dropping things. Well except names, my jaw or the occasional air biscuit, but anything that requires lowering myself to ground level because some object adheres to Newton’s basic law is my nemesis. I’m taking a stand against bending down.
Getting up from ground zero feels like I’m pulling myself out of a swimming pool without the aid of hand rails. Astronauts have more strength after a month in space.
Honestly? I’d be in better shape if I were in a coma because someone else would manipulate my limbs to prevent atrophy. [Note to self: research the cost of a physical trainer vs. a physical therapist.]
My husband and I view our Chihuahuas as service dogs for the disabled. If a dog is too picky to eat whatever food falls, he risks being returned to the shelter. (Don’t worry, we support no-kill shelters, we’re not heartless, just heavy.)
Because the dogs are so little, I freaked out whenever I dropped a pill. I’d strike faster than a Cobra, screaming “NO!” to beat the dogs to it. Now I figure a little anti-depressant will do them good, maybe even cure their separation anxiety. That whole “chocolate kills” turned out to be a myth, so a little chemical bump shouldn’t do any harm.
The only things I enjoy dropping are pounds, but since that takes actual effort and a genuine fight against the Earth’s pull, I will continue to place anything I need on counter tops, tables and shelves. The floor can keep whatever lands and I’ll let my scale do all the heavy lifting.