Equipment Failure

Okay, faithful readers. You have heard my rant about too many cookies and the fact that I love Skittles. Unfortunately I think my eating habits have finally caught up with me.


While the scale repeatedly tells me that I haven’t gained an exorbitant amount of weight,  there are other scales of measurement that have told me I look like a pleasantly pregnant pachyderm.

The scale I am going to discuss today is the chair. Not just any chair a folding chair. But that’s not even a fair mental image of the chair in question. This chair, that will now be referred to as “the chair” must have been built in the late 50’s / early 60’s to go with a card table, the kind you would have in your Midwest basement rec room. It’s where you play cards with your friends or the kids eat dinner when you have too much company upstairs. I am positive that The Chair actually came from the place I just described. Well, now, this ancient folding chair made the schlep across the country with its original owners and now resides in Northern California with my grandparents-in-law at their retirement home. The table has long since disappeared, but the chairs still serve their original purpose of coming out only when you have more company than seats.

In order for you to clearly picture what happens next, I should confess I was at first sitting in a walker with a built in seat.   I admit, I was messing around in the walker until I realized that I was probably going to break myself or the walker if I kept at it.  So I moved. I thought at the time I was being responsible. Honestly, after almost breaking the walker, I really was trying to be on my best behavior.

Those who know me will tell you I fidget.  And that I am not…full of grace.    

So I am sitting in The Chair. On my right is the recently spared walker and Grandpa-in-law in his recliner. Across from me sits my sister-in-law and to the left of me are my brother-in-law and my husband. We are all watching TV and chatting pleasantly when I feel the room suddenly thrust forward.  And then everything went into slow motion.  (I fall so often that I have a hierarchy worked out about degrees of funny. A slow fall gets a different amount of laughter then say a fast fall). This was a slow fall, so I start laughing before I hit the ground. I laugh, because I have so much belly weight that – in this new forward thrusting position — I simultaneously realize I can’t just stand up and play it cool and that I have broken The Chair.  There is absolutely nothing I can do to save myself from tumbling across the floor.  In a last-ditch effort to save my dignity (I should know better, I know) I grasp for the walker but only bang my arm on the way down. I tumble on to my knees to avoid hurting the baby and end up toppling into my sister-in-law’s lap. I collapse into giggles, as does she. My mother-in-law and Grandma-in-law are worried and come running over but I can’t reassure them because I am laughing so hard.   I, pregnant pachyderm, broke a chair in a retirement home.

So imagine the scene: pregnant lady splayed out on the ground with everyone hovering and offering help.  Me laughing so hard I hope I don’t also wet myself.  I gather what dignity I have left and thank the good lord I had changed out of my dress or else all my in-laws would have gotten a great look at my big, sexy underpants.    I take the now safest seat in the place: the aforementioned walker. My sainted mother-in-law also claims the screws holding The Chair together actually came out and that’s what caused it to break – or so I and my ever-more-fragile pregnant ego like to think.

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