I have been a raging klutz my entire life. Generally, this is because I don't watch where I'm going, I'm easily distracted, and I have horrible depth perception. On top of that, I bruise easily and have alabaster pale skin so I often look like someone's used me as a punching bag.
One of my legendary headers occurred when I was in college working at Quaker Square, an old oat factory that had been converted into a shopping mall and hotel. Many of the old wooden industrial features of the original building had been left intact to lend an air of historical significance. While working at the mall, I had caught the eye of a young man named Mark, who eventually became my first serious boyfriend. Mark was tall and good looking and I couldn't believe he was interested in me. Sadly, he was cursed with an overwhelming amount of self absorption and had the cerebral capacity of a dachshund. Even though I was a bit of a brainiac back then, I forgave his defective intellect because I'd never dated anyone that handsome before. I was 19, okay? You're allowed-nay, expected- to be that shallow at nineteen.
Early in our courtship, Mark and I would spend our dinner breaks together. Mark would leave the news stand where he worked and meet me at the gourmet kitchen shop where I was employed. We would walk downstairs to the cafeteria and would each place the same order night after night. He selected a dried up hot dog and a semi frozen piece of cheesecake. I opted for Cool Ranch Doritos and Dr. Pepper, the two foods that sustained me during the college years.
So, one evening we were walking to the basement eatery and I began my descent down the wooden stairs. I miscalculated my landing on the first step with my right foot, and I frantically grabbed the heavy railing, which was a solid 8x8 piece of timber. As I gripped the railing, my body's momentum was flinging me forward, and the next thing I knew, my face smashed into the wood I was holding tightly. Mark stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at me in open mouthed amazement. He made no move to assist me.
Just as if I was in a cartoon, I saw stars. As I shook them out of my field of vision and regained what was left of my composure I fished out my compact, and surveyed the damage. The impact could have been much worse. The bridge of my nose hit the hardest, but only split open the skin, nothing appeared to be broken. It was obvious that I would need stitches, but weirder still, I had somehow managed to pull out almost all of the eyelashes on my top right eyelid. I snapped the compact shut and looked up at Mark, who STILL had not moved or shut his gaping piehole (sidenote-my dad HATED him on first meeting. He couldn't stand this boy looking at his daughter like she was a piece of meat. It took me many more months to kick his ass to the curb, but when I finally did, I gave my father the pleasure of listening to the break up call. My dad was cheering in the background, pumping his fists and doing a happy dance. Girls, when your daddy hates your boyfriend, heed his concerns.)
I began to ascend the stairs and announced to Mark that I would need to go to the hospital for stitches. I lived off campus and walked to class and work and didn't have a car. I asked if he would take me. The request shook him out of his stupor. He reached out to give me a half-assed hug and began to examine my face. "Ah, you don't need stitches, you're fine," he decided.
Perhaps I had overreacted. Again, I examined the wound in my mirror and saw the deep cut. I looked at him and said, "Yes. Yes I do."
He became defensive, "Well, I'm the only one working the newsstand tonight, I can't take you."
To his credit, he was working alone. But the little shopping areas were dead on weeknights, and we closed our stores to go on our half hour lunch breaks. I just needed him to drop me off at the emergency room entrance, and then he could take his piece of crap Ford Maverick and leave skid marks out of there for all I cared. I was disgusted with myself for yet another public humiliation, and beyond pissed at this guy who I was seeing in a completely different light.
I returned to the store where I worked and called my boss, Mrs. Lopane. She was an incredible woman, who felt very motherly to the college students who staffed her stores. She insisted that I close the shop down. Renata, the girl who was working in the linen shop that Mrs. Lopane also owned, would take me to the hospital.
I called my parents next, and my dad said he'd get there as soon as possible. Fortunately, it was only a forty-five minute drive from my family home. Renata stayed with me until my dad found me in an examining room. I had already had five stitches to sew up the bridge of my nose. The x-rays showed no fracture or concussion, but I was beginning to turn several shades of green and purple around my right eye, and I had a brilliant headache. My dad decided that I would miss a couple days of classes and spend the weekend with my family recuperating. We left the hospital and he took me to my apartment to get my belongings.
As we approached the apartment, a car sat in the alley facing us with it's lights on. We shielded our eyes in attempt to determine the driver, and Mark got out of the car. He greeted my father, and pulled a wilted long stemmed rose (the kind you find at gas station checkouts) from behind his back-his weak attempt at contrition. My dad went upstairs and left us alone. Mark apologized for not taking me to the hospital and said his boss had chastised him for not doing the right thing. I brushed it off and told him our date for the weekend was going to be scrapped since I was returning to Massillon with my dad. He looked crestfallen, and again apologized. Before he slid back into his car, he turned and told me that his sweater was covered with my eyelashes.
My dad took me home and my family doted on me. Coincidentally, my mom had just had her wisdom teeth removed a couple days prior to my accident and she was sporting colorful bruises from her cheeks down to the base of her neck. We spent the weekend shopping and constantly assured staring onlookers that we hadn't been in a terrible car accident together.