My daughter is a fully mature and beautiful woman. She is successful, independent, smart and generally happy with her life. I am incredibly proud of her. She is my best friend and I love her more than words can say. She has tried to tell me that she has psychopathic tendencies before, but of course I dismiss such an assertion as so much bull-oney. But today, I perhaps got a dark glimpse of what she means.
We were working hard sorting through the stuff left in the old house, separating the Good Will from the trash, and the few things I want to keep. I had something in my hands and was striding confidently toward her when I crashed into the Bowflex treadmill, full steam ahead. I banged my leg into a metal flange and smashed my toes against a metal edge. It caused me to fall flat out on the floor, the pain so severe that I could hardly breathe.
It has long been a tradition in our family that as long as you are conscious and at least think you can still walk, it is perfectly okay for the other two immediate family members to howl with laughter at your misfortune. Yeah. All I could do was gasp a string of obscenities while she alternated between "Are you broken?" and howling with laughter.
Well, I have no one to blame but myself for raising her that way.