My soapbox is out. This is a public service announcement.
Some people stub a toe. Some trip and break an arm. Some, like my client, tackle a thief caught red-handed in his office at GA Tech, stealing computers and other expensive office equipment. Like a super hero, Clark (as in Kent) threw himself at the perp-bastard. The story goes that they tussled and the end result was that my client injured a previously injured (and subsequently healed) knee and was limping about.
That is a good story, peeps. There is plot, there is heroism, and there is big screen action. Clark is limping is because he was a stud bunny and took on a bad man, engaged in real-life struggle. The perp got away. But Clark’s story continues. He’s being summoned in to the Po-Po to look at mug shots and look through one way glass at a line up. Exciting stuff.
Same day that my client limped up to his big Craftsman front door and let me in to inspect his gawg-geous half –bath that we just completed, I ran into another woman earlier that morning. She was a teacher at my daughter’s school and she was sporting a big ungainly boot on her foot. I asked her what happened and she said that she tripped in the parking lot. Here’s where my filter broke and my compassion slipped. I blurted out, “That’s a horrible story.”
Now, happily, I think that the woman thought I was being empathetic that she broke her foot in the parking lot. But, no. I was reacting to the fact that this was not a good story– it was flat. It was mundane. It was boring as shit.
As a testament to my classy upbringing, I managed to find my filter and button the lip when I realized that she took my reaction to be concern over her fractured bone. But what I truly meant was that if you are going to break a bone, you have to have a tale of action, adventure, bravery to go along with it. If you’re just a huge klutz, well make something up to entertain the hundreds of people that will ask about your big honking injury. You’ve must give them something. Everyone is a storyteller on some level. I believe that!
Go watch _Life of Pi_. It doesn’t have to be a story involving a shipwreck, trapped on a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger, or have a carnivorous island that eats people. But create a little drama, for God’s sake.
Which brings me to my tonsil. This is day three of my injured tonsil. In fact, I think I broke it. It seems to swing out when I talk and then get sucked back into my throat when I swallow. And that’s kinda nasty, even for me. It aches. And I injured it eating French fries at The Porter, a dark little dive bar in Little Five Points with crafts beers and excellent food.
They are the best fries in the City, in my opinion. All garlicky and oil-drizzled, with just the right amount of parsley and little green garnish; they are a delight. Rivaled only by Leon’s, with all of those yummy dipping sauces.
But the offending fry got lodged sideways in my throat. I was probably talking too much and trying to eat at the same time. Anyway, I thought for about two hours that the fry was hung up in my tonsil. Finally, after 5 gallons of hot green tea and twenty trips to the bathroom, I figured that fry had melted and what felt like a baseball bat wedged in my throat was likely just the phantom ache of the offending fry. Like when someone loses a limb, but you are SURE it’s still there.
Yes, my fry injury to the tonsil was exactly like losing a limb.
But it seems like now my tonsil is stretched out and is flapping back in my throat like a flag on a windy day. And injuring it with an ill-chewed fry is about the worst story in the free world. Thank God no one can see my elongated and cumbersome tonsil whipping about in back in my esophagus or I’ve have to come up with something daring and winsome to explain a wound caused by eating naughty carbs.
