Playing Catch

I have this thing with my left eye - it's called "cellophane maculopathy," or "macular pucker." Not fatal, not even debilitating, but really irritating sometimes. Because of it, if I close the other eye, the world looks as if I were looking at it through broken glass. "Mosaic vision" I call it. When the doctor found it years ago (after I'd developed a dead zone in the center) he asked if I'd suffered any trauma to that eye.

"Not really," I said, then remembered something. "Wait, my cousin shot a flat-tipped arrow into it when I was four," I told him. "The tear-duct was closed until I was in my twenties. Does that count?"

"Mm-hm," he said, making a note.

I frowned. "Oh, and I was in a few ... some ... okay, a lot of fights when I was a kid, mostly with right-handers, so I took some ... a lot of blows to that eye. That whole side of my head, really."

An eyebrow raised, but only "mm," he said, and more writing.

"And there was the time my brother accidentally stabbed me with a toothpick. It bled a little, got infected - they thought they'd have to do surgery."

He glanced up at that. "A toothpick?"

"Long story involving a hole in the wall, a stupid friend of his, and me changing clothes. Then, when I figured out what they were doing, I tried to spy on them ..."

"Ah," he said, blinking. "Is that all?"

"The scene shop in college, maybe? Lots of wood bits found their place."

"Right."

"And, uh ... well, there's softball."

He sat back with a sigh, put his pen down. "Don't tell me - infield pops?"

"Nope. I was a catcher."

"And a few dozen got through, huh?" He shook his head and picked up his pen. "So you were bad at fighting, bad at spying, bad at carpentry, bad at catching softball --"

"Wrong, Doc," I said with dignity, "I was great at fighting and spying and carpentry and catching." I shrugged. "I was just really bad at ducking."

I haven't improved much over the years. Cabinets leap out to thwack me in the head or the leg, tables scoot in front of me with the least provocation, and even in his sleep the Big Lug can find just about any part of me with elbows or knees. It's why I'm a bit ... wary of this home improvement quest.

I'm a wimp about this, I know. I mean, I've filed my fingernails down (they're usually the first thing to go, and painfully) got the leather gloves and the safety glasses at the ready, yet still I hesitate on even the smallest project. Too many bits of metal and wood and bugs ... and various other things ... have found their way into my eyes and mouth and skin over the years. (I won't even tell you the story involving my car's open moon roof and a seagull, but ... ew.) I know I should just dive right in, face my fear. Yet I'd so much rather write, or tutor, or ... stick another toothpick in my eye ... than face the steel filings I know are lurking in the basement.

Okay, the toothpick is a bit of an overstatement - not a great memory there. But, honestly, I have been busy at work - a situation which, fortunately or unfortunately, is about to end (this weekend is the SATs, and not as many will take it in March). I have also been trying to get everything organized (taxes, investments, the asset/obligation sheet), tasks which do not invite as many kamikaze insects into my life but do eat up life moments. I'm trying to get back in the habit of walking and watching what I eat, too, after a little break - just because I've reached my goal doesn't mean I can relax the vigilance, right? Going through my library of cookbooks is taking time, too, and the seed catalogues, and ...

Ah, crap. I lied to the Doc, didn't I? Maybe not about the physical, but about the mental ... responsibilities and promises ... bob and weave ... excuse after excuse ... yep, I told a whopper all right.

I'm really quite good at ducking.