Pardon me if I type a little slower than usual...

Saturday we hosted a "Homerathon" for Andrew's 9th grade humanities students, in which we read (most of) the Iliad from noon until 8pm. Nothing like the 20 hour sessions Reynolds has every fall, but 8 hours was quite daunting enough for a bunch of high school freshmen. It was hard for a lot of them, but they did great. All in all, it was a smashing success.

A little too literally.

15 high schoolers in your living room can produce a rather enormous amount of trash. I should have just piled the bags up in the garage. I should have. Oh, how I should have.

But instead, I went out through the garage, to the trash cans in the side yard. And this meant opening the garage door.

I never open the garage door. I mean, I open the door from the kitchen to the garage all the time, but the big huge rolling crashing monstrous metal thing between the garage and the driveway scares the daylights out of me. As far as I'm concerned, the only way in or out of the garage is through the kitchen.

But I needed (or thought I needed) to get to the side yard, and both the front and back doors were off limits, unless I wanted to carry the trash over the kids' heads. So I cautiously lifted up the clanging aluminum mass, and slipped underneath.

Perhaps my caution was my undoing. The door didn't catch, and before I'd had a chance to pull the trash bag out behind me, the thing began clattering back down again, as I frantically fumbled about for the handle.

I was reaching up for the handle, when suddenly I found myself crouched down on the driveway, with the middle three fingers of my left hand firmly wedged inside the door. It's a bit hard to describe, but you know how garage doors are made up of a bunch of horizontal slats, all hinged together? This allows the garage door to bend when it goes up. When the garage door is up, there is space between the slats where it is bending around the corner, but when the garage door falls back down, there is no space at all. That non-space was precisely where my fingers were. And since my fingers normally do take up space, that was something of a problem. A very, very painful problem.

After an endless three seconds or so of fumbling, I eventually found the handle, and hoisted the beastly thing up with my right arm.

I got my fingers out, and they don't appear to be broken. At least, I can move them without too much difficulty, and there's no noticeable swelling. Just pain. Quite a bit of pain, in fact. But I'm okay.

And I'm never opening a garage door again in my life.


Emily (Laundry and Lullabies) said...

Oh Elena, ouch! I'm so sorry!

But what a fun experience for the kids...that is the sort of thing that they'll be talking about for years to come. "Remember when Mr. Johnston had us all read the Iliad..." :)

Anonymous said...

This makes me think of early philosophical discussions of the nature of matter. "Why do things not go through things?" Of course our physicist consultant said it was because matter is like brillo pads. But it would have been nice if your fingers could have found the empty spaces inside the matter of the garage door...

your mom

slowlane said...

Poor fingers. Ask the wuggies to kiss them and make them feel better, k?