So lemmie tell you about the (mostly healed, in this photograph) wound on my forehead. Kind of a funny story.
Last week The Queen and I rearranged the furniture in our bedroom, to make space for my new Craftsman 1470 pc. Professional Tool Set. (I like to store it all laid out like that, so I can easily find things.) As part of Operation Squabble (we cleverly embarked upon this plan when we were already tired and cranky, like at midnight), we decided to put a dresser into the walk-in closet. We’re talking a full-sized bureau here, about five feet high.
I grab one side, The Queen grabs the other, and we hoist it across the room. Between the lifting and my slightly hunched-over posture, the top edge of the dresser is level with my eyeline. Also, the corners of the thing are incredibly sharp. That’s a little thing we in the literary business like to call “Foreshadowing”.
So I’m backing into the closet. As I do so, the back of my head makes contact with the … you know, the thing. The rod. The hollow, wooden tube that runs below the shelf, on which you place the clothes hangers? That thing. I touch it with the back of my head. But I am so startled that I jerk forward, slamming my forehead into the corner of the dresser.
“Ohh god!” I howl, hastily setting my end of the dresser down and clutching my forehead. “Oh man. God, that hurts. Jeeze, I really got myself. I’m going to have a splitting headache within five minutes, I bet. Probably have a huge bump tomorrow, too. Wow, that was pretty bad. Yeah, that’s gonna be a goose egg.”
I look up at The Queen, and she’s completely stony-faced. Not a trace of sympathy. “Can we finish this?” she says. So I mutter under my breath a bit, and we finish putting the dresser into the closet.
About an hour later The Queen is in bed reading, and, as I climb in, she glances my direction. “Holy smokes,” she cries, “what happened?!”
“Your forehead! There’s a huge red mark on it.”
I do a slow burn for a moment. “That’s where I hit it. On the corner of the dresser.”
“When did that happen?”
“When did …?!” I splutter a bit. “Did you miss the part where I was clutching my head and yowling?”
“Ohhhhhh ….” Realization sets in. “I didn’t see you hit your head on the dresser. I though you were reacting to having backed into the closet rod at, like, one mile an hour.”
“I had my hand on the front of my head!” I point out.
“Yes,” she says, “That’s how I knew you were faking.”