Blue Butter

There was a special on TV today. It’s sort of a “Christmas on Ice” presentation. I hated it. Oh, I don’t mean I hate the sport in general, but I do hate the fact it makes me a nervous wreck. Worse, I hate knowing why I feel that way. You see, I’m about as graceful as a drunk man trying to flirt - there just ain’t nothing attractive about it.
Off the top of my head, I can think of six recent events that prove my point. Most recently was the trip over the extension cord I left on my front porch. Don’t go judgin’ me - let me tell the story first.
Let me lay the groundwork - trust me, it puts me in a far better light than if I just told the story with no foundation. I live alone and my yard behind the privacy fence is small enough that I can use the weed eater in the summer. The only problem is I have no idea how to mix the oil and gas and my Dad, God love him, has long since given up any hope of my learning how to mix it either. His solution was to arm me with his two electric weed eaters. My daddy is a wise man. He once told me, after I’d moved about an hour and a half north of my hometown to be careful with the gun he left me. He told me to be sure I hit what I aimed for and to be even more sure of my target - he had no intentions of making the drive in the middle of the night to bury one of my dogs I’d mistaken for a burglar. But that’s another story. So, here I am, with my weed eaters I plug into an extension cord. I have one of those big orange ones that will cover the entire parameter of the yard. One particularly hot day, after I’d finished with the yard work, I left the extension cord on the porch and I clearly remember thinking to myself, “You better get it out of the way….you know how clumsy you are”. But me, in my own delightful world that no one else is privy to, I convinced myself that I’d just avoid it until I managed to gather enough energy to put it away. That energy was a long time coming because two days later, it’s still on the front porch. And then I trip over it. I busted my knee up something fierce. The scar is horrendous and even though it’s been months, it still pops from time to time. But it gets better. A few weeks later, after I’d managed to heal to some degree, I’m doing my yard work again on a Saturday morning. I had an electric hedge clipper at full speed and heard my cell ring. And yes, I know better. I turned for a split second to see who was calling and when I turned back, I misjudged the distance from the handle to where the little hedge thingeys were moving at warp speed. All I remember is a flash of red and my finger flying past my head (don’t go judgin’ me - let me finish my story). I dropped the hedge clippers and reached into my car for a t-shirt that’d been in the back seat for God knows how long, closed my eyes and wrapped my hand in it to catch the gallons of blood. Then I called Mom. I think I told her I cut my finger off. I was traumatized - I don’t remember exactly what I told her. I was too scared to look. What seemed like ten seconds later, she comes wheelin’ in the driveway in her truck. It’s funny now, but so tragic as it was happening - the dogs were trying to greet her (or maybe trying to make their escape - again, I was traumatized and I don’t remember clearly). She takes the t-shirt off - I think I was in shock and near the passing out stage - and the next thing I remember is, “Donna, you didn’t cut your finger off!” I finally muster the courage to look for myself and all my fingers were still attached. She bandages it up for me and sings the chicken soup song and doles out the appropriate amount of maternal “oh baby, it’s OK” reassurances before she goes home to tell Daddy my latest mishap. For some reason, Daddy waits until Monday morning to call me - from work - to tease me about it. Yeah, something about an audience made it that much funnier, I guess.
Anyway, back to the ice skating. I find it so difficult to believe the grace these athletes have. It’s truly an art - but I just don’t know how they do it, time and again, and never manage to fall or trip or something. Of course, I don’t want them to, but I do want to know how they do it. I want to know how they manage these incredible and graceful moves when I can’t even drink a diet Coke without spilling it down the front of my shirt! And in case you’re wondering, my finger I swore I saw fly past was a twig that was in the hedge clippers.

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