Hercules In A Handbag

“What took you so long?”

“I got a flat tire.”

“You know how to change one,” he interrupts.  Yes this is true, but I cannot get the wheel OFF the bike because your mitts fastened it too tight.  I have to flag down another man, not to change my flat, but just to loosen the wheel.  “Oh sorry for helping you,” he sarcastically sulks.

I carry a collection of sippy cups over to the sink.  I grunt and twist and turn and finally throw them against the back splash.  “Can you not put the lids on like that!?” I cry, “I can never get them off!”  Sips do not drip!  That is the point of the cup, no need to Seven Seal them!  Man hands man handle.  A fact that is great for tasks dictating, “Pick that big box up and move it there.”

“Wait, not there, way up….up there.  Yep, up there.  Oh, I forgot something in that box, could you get it down again?  Thanks sweets.”  Kiss kiss.

But somehow just turning off the kitchen sink, man hands break the handle.  They shatter expensive wine glasses, they knock over glass containers onto bathroom floors, they open well sealed olive jars, but then ask me to pull them out.  Small hands.  My father best took advantage of this when he asked his six year old daughter to scale the roof and clean the winter waste out of the gutters.

Consequently, I have no problem asking big hands for help.  A gentleman walks by me on his way to the Cosco entrance.  “Excuse me Sir,” I smile, “Can you just lift this for me and put it in my car?  Oh thank you.”  In such situations a slight twinge of a southern accent is best served.

Speaking of asking for it, today I went and saw Rusty for physical therapy on my sore quadriceps and left Achilles tendon.  His index fingers probably go to the gym to bench press.  Thumbs are crunching double sets of one hundred while pinky is running laps inter-spaced by pull ups.  I lie there awaiting their attention.  I have been on this table before; therefore, I am not oblivious to the medieval methods of quality PT healing.  Good time to practice breathing, until I start coughing.  “You alright?”

“Yep, just gonna puke.”  Too bad no one has invented a PT pill.  Oh wait, it might be called Valium.  There is a little Hercules for your handbag!

Of course, I joke, but I do not think my hands would ever be capable of creating so much therapeutic pain.  Girlie me would have to wield some sort of object and then it is doubtful that it would heal anything.

Oh yeah, I think this is the part where I say, “Thank you!”

~ by drea on March 12, 2009.