Friday, October 25, 2013

post traumatic fish tank smash

Last week my fish tank inexplicably exploded as I walked by - I stood there gasping not unlike the gourami on the floor, amongst the decorative stones, glass shards and water. Lots and lots of water. It was random and crazy, and I can still only imagine how much worse it would have been if the tank had been bigger, if more blood had been shed, if N.Lo hadn't been home sick with me called in to work. 

Obviously I lived to tell the tale. Cleanup ensued. Electronics lived, skin remained mostly unscathed, many books were rescued while others soaked and died. Even those goddamn fish are still swimming around in a pitcher, all six of them, though I don't know for how long. 

But one thing is still bothering me. I'm going to write it here and never speak of it again. Because ultimately it is just one of those terrible, itchy, imperfect things in life that you can do absolutely nothing about. 

My floorboards are warped. You have to stare at them to see it, or shuffle your feet like I do when I walk around the house to feel it. The wood is still glossy and shiny and lovely, I get that. And it could have been so much worse, I also get that. But there it is, on so many of the planks the water met, a slight bow to the edges, a vexing, audible unevenness under my slippered strides, which won't ever, ever be amended, save for an entire reinstallation. Which I know darn well will never happen. 


There. I said it. Now I'm never talking about again. Bah!

1 comment:

bruckner said...

Oh, wow.

What sheer utter heartbreak.

For therapy, I recommend a viewing of duece bigalow male jigalow. It is a story that revolves around a similar incident.