I've always thought there would be a point in my life where I would stop injuring myself constantly. Photo / Supplied
Will Johnston cut his forehead open on a wooden chair.
I've always thought there would be a point in my life where I would stop injuring myself constantly. Turns out no.
I remember talking to my then 97-year-old nana about this a few years back.
She said when you're old you are more attentive and try to watch for everything that you could fall over, then you just fall over your own damn feet walking down a hall! And your brain is saying "put your hands out and break your fall you idiot" and your body just flatly doesn't listen and you fall on your face or hip!
Apart from that sounding terrifyingly like you're trapped in your own dysfunctional body, I was happy know that, all going well, my brain will still be able to call myself an idiot if I make it to 97.
People say being tall is a blessing. Largely I agree. I can see at concerts and I can reach all of the things ever.
I can also see what condition the top of your head/scalp is in too. There is a lot of dandruff in the Bay of Plenty.
But the bane of my lanky existence is the lack of spatial awareness of my extremities.
You know that sharp and repetitive breath when you knock a toe? That is my life daily.
I'm an octopus in the wind, an inflatable flailing arm tube man.
Last week I cut my forehead open in the morning rush. I was bending down to pick up my socks off the floor and I introduced my large bonce to the corner of a wooden chair arm. A decent wee 2cm split at the top of my forehead.
Could've come up with something better huh? Like: a bus crashed and I was in a tree on fire and it was full of puppies ... And I saved them all before it exploded.
The reality was I went to A & E and the lady at reception laughed at me and said the doctors needed a giggle today and me picking up my socks was definitely going to do that for them.
I'm pleased to report I delivered for them, as I was being literally forehead-glued back together the doctor chuckled as she was giving me the details of how to look after the wound.
Probably the best response I got though was from a lady I know, who is a mother, who, after I told her what had happened, looked me right in the eye and said:
"And this is why socks don't live on the floor isn't it." Sometimes I hate it that mothers are always right!