Is This You? Forgetting How to Get Up

There was a time when I saw my 270-pound husband — a very big man — flat-footed jump on top of a 55-gallon barrel. It was something he had done since he was a teenager. I saw him do it when he was nearing 50.

There was a time when I could do a running jump and clear the corral fences without even thinking about it. Fences that are about four and a half feet tall. It was easier to clear the fence than to walk to the gate. Besides, that flying part was just so freeing.

Now? For some magical reason, I have forgotten how to even get up off the ground. Oh, I know how — but although the desire to get up is there, the knowledge of what goes where first has left the building blocks of my brain.

I know I am not alone in this dilemma. And I know I could get up as recently as a few short days — maybe months, okay, years ago. The first sign was when I watched my older brother (older by 18 months) try to get up after he came over to help me put in a new toilet.

There we were. On the floor with the wax ring and porcelain throne. Everything ready to go — and we had to get up to lower the throne over the hole. Both of us looked at each other and started to laugh. I said, “You get up first.” He said, “You get up first.” Oh, the grunting, groaning, snapping, and crackling of body parts. I swear we weren’t even that old then.

I bring this up because tomorrow I have to get down on the floor and clean up a mess I made.

Have you ever gone to do something, and in your head you’re thinking, Don’t do it! It’s a bad plan. Don’t do it! Well, I didn’t listen to my little voice. I was getting company, and I wanted to change the wax in my wax melter — the one that makes the air all odoriferous.

As I was taking the liquid wax to the garbage, I could almost see myself tripping and spilling it — on the carpet, in the living room. But my overconfident self was too hard-headed to let the wax harden first. So — trip, splat, squish. (Y(&%&%^)!)

The prettiest splay of yellow pine-scented wax gracefully made its way out of the dish and onto the carpet. That was about two weeks ago.

Oh, I started the cleanup. I made the mess; I have to clean it up. I got ice and froze the wax and picked a lot off. Then I scraped the wax off the wall, the back of the couch, and a wooden stool. Then I got my iron out and started to iron up the rest of the wax onto paper bags.

Yes, of course I Googled “how to remove wax from carpet.” I used up the paper bags I’d brought to the mess, thinking two would be enough. Two was not enough. I needed more.

Then I realized I also needed to get up and use the facilities.

It was then that I realized I had actually forgotten how to get up off the floor. Well — that, and the fact that it was late in the day, I was tired, and that strength of flying over the corral fences was nowhere to be found.

I would not let myself believe I was that “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” woman from the commercial. After all — I hadn’t fallen. I got down here on my own power.

Where did my giddy-up-and-go get to?

Apparently, I left my giddy in my other jeans. My feet were too big and in the way. My arms were of no help — there wasn’t much to grab onto to pull myself up. I remember thinking — and I may have even said out loud to no one, because I live alone — Bring in the crane.

The thing is, that was at least five days ago, and I have not gotten back down to finish cleaning the wax out of the carpet. I left the used paper bags over the wax. My iron is still out on the counter — waiting.

But I am not ready to get back down there. Because I’m here to tell you: down there is really, really far down there. Back up is twice as far as down there is.

I have picked up and peeked under the wax-spotted bags I was using — hoping beyond hope that my Fairy Godmother came in the night and finished the job.

FYI: She has not been by. I don’t know why.

Good gravy! At least she can still fly!

Trina lives in Diamond Valley, north of Eureka, Nevada. She loves to hear from readers. Email her at [email protected]

Really.