Would the Village People Steal Snacks?

                Exercise is universally acknowledged as dangerous; at least in my house.  However, I was never aware consuming low calorie snacks could cause pain and suffering outside of the unpleasant results of eating sugar-free cookies.  The snack in question was a 90-calorie bag of naked popcorn.  Naked in the sense of no artificial flavors; had there been a more scandalous connotation it should have been titled nekkid popcorn.  There’s difference, at least where I’m from.

                I have a drawer in my desk that holds my snacks.  I keep it filled with healthy snacks for all manner of emergencies like late nights, the 2:00 pm energy boost or bribes, depending on the situation.  Prior to yesterday, the only danger with this system was that the drawer, bottom left, if not closed firmly will sometimes slide open again, like the bedroom window of an unrepentant teen after curfew.  And I’ve hit this drawer with my chair and my leg but never with the full force of my body in motion. 

                I was sitting in my office, talking to my management trainee James (hey, dude!) and we were discussing some of the ins and outs of leadership and managing people.  It should come as no surprise that I was telling a story and a good story always needs a snack.  I had just retrieved said bag of popcorn from the drawer and opened it, while closing the drawer with my foot, which I felt was the most efficient use of time and energy, just like those dudes from Toyota.  I’m living the lean journey, people, LIVING IT!          

                After a minute or so, I rose to demonstrate something appropriately leadershippy (and if you ask James he will concur, won’t you James) not realizing the desk drawer hadn’t ever really closed, like those mattress stores that are “Going out of Business” for the better part of a decade.

                As you probably know, the desk is inanimate and stationary and my body isn’t, so it should come as no surprise when I came into contact with the drawer, I tripped over the drawer, slicing my leg, but fortuitously not my suit pants, and fell.  While trying to catch myself, I only propelled my rather large head into the wall and landing with a thud, followed by an interjection that would most certainly not have been exclaimed in that “Schoolhouse Rocks” tune.  You remember interjections show excitement (Wow) or emotion (Hey)?  My interjection had several more letters and was followed by an appropriate number of exclamation points.

                One of the measures of success, I feel, is the size of one’s office.  This hadn’t occurred to me until I looked up, all prostrate, rumpled and embarrassed, to see at least a baker’s dozen people crowded around me.  There was the aforementioned James, our student worker, two of our clinicians, one of my managers, two nurses, a cop, a cowboy, a construction worker and an Indian.  I could be wrong about the last three; I was woozy from the blow to my head.

                So, I was picked up from the pool of blood on the floor, mostly from the leg; not so much from the head.  They rushed me to the emergency room (it’s convenient to work in a hospital) , triaged me, interviewed me and took me to a room where I examined and then photographed my open wound.  James, great guy that he is, accompanied me to the ER and we sort of just stared at the wound.  No matter what sort of guy you are, you are drawn by morbid curiosity to really gross things.

                Cut to a fantastic medical team treating the wound, not laughing directly in my face when I explained how it happened and sewing me back together with 17 stitches in my right shin.  You know I’m going to try to be #1 in anything I do.  Simply fall down?  That is sooooo not me.  I will fall down with prejudice.  I will have an open wound, with possible infection.  I will not take painkillers.  Ok, maybe my head got hit a little too hard.  I’m strong-hearted (according to the book of baby names), but not foolish.  Pain pills, please.

                When I got home The Dad had fixed dinner (Pork Chops, Home Fries and Fried Cabbage; the last two items containing at least a pound of bacon between them) and I ate like I hadn’t had my afternoon snack or dinner, which I hadn’t.  Can I tell you that I needed some comfort food?  It was sooooo gooooood, I cleaned my plate, which is something I haven’t done since 2008. 

                The Dad was so pleased that he didn’t even make fun of me for falling down; at least not to my face.  I wonder what he’ll say at breakfast?  But a more important point to ponder, what happened to my popcorn?