Scabs and Scars and Sketch Comedy

It was funny, really, after I got past the pain and the blood and the embarrassment.  Funny like Tim Conway falling down the stairs in slow motion or Lucy racing the chocolate conveyor belt – funny because it reflected the simple human truth that none of us is ever really in control.

The source of my humiliation – my stairs, my conveyor belt – was the treadmill planted ostentatiously and unavoidably in the middle of my bedroom.  Every day I clip the safety key to the bottom of my shirt and set off on a 40-minute walk to nowhere.  The pink faux Fitbit that I strap to my wrist measures my heart rate and reminds me when it is time to hydrate.  And that, on this particular day, is when what would become my contribution to sketch comedy started.

About three-quarters of the way to my destination, which was, of course, also my starting point, I reached for my grocery store-brand bottle of water and felt its thin plastic yield to my grip.  I also felt the condensation that had begun forming the minute I took it out of the refrigerator and that left my hand dripping wet.  I took a quick gulp, set the bottle back down, reached for the handlebar, and felt my hand slip.  

Digital displays are handy things, except when one’s condensation covered hand accidentally slides over the speed button and, within a couple of seconds, raises the speed from 3.1 to 6.0.  I raced to keep up with the speeding track beneath my feet, one hand clinging to the handlebar and the other flailing over the screen trying to slow the monster down.

Managing a slight reduction in speed, my lizard brain (It had to be my lizard brain.  My other brain is smarter than that.) made the decision to jump off.  One foot landed on the bedroom floor, one slipped on the water that had dripped from the bottle onto the treadmill and proceeded to throw me face down onto the treadmill where I slid to the end and off onto the floor, at which point the safety key pulled away from its magnetic home and the treadmill stopped.

Note that except for an ugly scrape about the size of an Oreo on my left knee, a scrape that created an ugly and obvious scab and which has taken about five weeks to heal, I was fine. I caught my breath, rolled over, and started laughing, which was the only thing to do.

It was the next day before it occurred to me that I could have just pulled the safety key.  (It also occurred to me that my “other brain” may not be quite as smart as I thought.)  As is so often the case, that which would have saved me was a simple action close at hand.  An obvious solution. An easy fix.  

Why is it so difficult for us to slow ourselves down? Why do we kick so hard against the pricks of deceleration? Why can we not see that still and quiet are not the same as empty and that acknowledging limitations is not the same as incompetence?  

My wound has nearly healed.  The ugly scab has, as scabs do, slowly hardened and flaked away and pretty soon all that will be left is the soft pink skin of a new scar, a constant reminder of what happens when I forget.

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