On Monday as I was getting ready for work, my hand brushed the deodorant stick that was sitting precariously on the narrow sill of the bathroom mirror. Not unexpectedly, the deodorant used this slight as an excuse to fly to Bermuda for the winter, with stop-offs on the edge of the sink, the toilet tank, the toilet paper roll and the toilet seat. Typically, this event would initiate a game of hot potato as I attempted to prevent the escape from ending in an impromptu baptism in the toilet bowl. Yes, this has happened before.
This time, however, I was paralyzed with inevitability. My deodorant has been born again more often than an atheist on a roller coaster, in spite of my vigorous interventions. I saw the deodorant's predestined header into the toilet as an unfolding fractal pattern, a microcosm of my life.
It didn't happen!
The deodorant clipped the edge of the toilet seat, and the squatty little Walter Mitty was sent spinning across the bathroom floor.
I was stunned. I'm still stunned.
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1 comment:
Hilarious! You are a great writer mom. I forget sometimes how well you can phrase things. The question remains though: Did your luck change or is the deoderant following its predetermined destiny, which is to fall in the toilet 20 times and spin across the floor on the 21st try?
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