I Broke a Chair

Place: My sister's new house, in the town where we grew up.
Date: Three or four years ago
Situation: Pre-move-in painting party

I hate painting. I suck at it. But my sister helped me when I bought my first house and now it was time to return the favor. At the point where we join this story, I have already kicked over a paint can, filled to the brim with a beachy blue, onto the medium brown carpet.

Latex. It cleans up. Mostly.

And my sister is already regretting my involvement. She's just too nice to say so and too smart to turn away free help, no matter how awful that help is.

So, roller in hand, I'm attacking her bedroom wall. I am making the requisite "W" pattern and trying to keep a wet edge. But I need a little vertical assistance to get to the ceiling.

I grab a folding chair to use as a ladder.

Big mistake.

This folding chair is not all metal. The seat is a sturdy cardboard/pressboard covered in a nubby fabric. And when I step up on it, it collapses underfoot. How very embarrassing. I'm too heavy to stand on a chair.

My sister is kind and doesn't make a big deal of this. I'm too horrified to even acknowledge it has happened. We both figuratively look the other way and carry on with the task at hand.

The room gets painted. I go home. And I try as hard as I can to NOT think about it.

I broke a chair. I broke a chair because I weighed too much. I don't tell Jim. I don't tell anyone. This is not the kind of thing you discuss with anybody. I'm ashamed. I'm humiliated. And I have to bury it deep inside where it can live with all that other stuff that causes the pit in my stomach that never quite goes away. Do you know that feeling? It's fear and pain and inadequacy.

I'm thinking about it now because today is my sister's wedding anniversary. And I think my gift to her should be a new folding table and chairs, don't you?