As Seen on TV—Not!

I thought of using my arms as leverage, pushing myself up and hoisting myself backward and upward in a perfectly executed handspring that would land me back on my feet in a faultless stand-up landing.  I could just hear the crowd now, applauding and cheering my brilliant athleticism as the spotlight shown down on me and . . . Wait.  That’s not a spotlight at all.  It’s only the dull glow of a homely closet light fixture.  I tried the arm leverage strategy.  Nothing.  I tried again.  Still nothing.  Get serious.  I’ve never been the athletic type.  My idea of exercise is clicking the remote.  So what now?

My dog is of no help.  Let’s face it:  He’s no Lassie.  Besides, he hasn’t even come to see the source of all the huffing, puffing, and grunting.  Where is that mutt anyway?  The least he could do is offer moral support.  And the cats couldn’t care less, of course.  I’m starting to resemble the woman in the commercial who cries, “Help!  I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”  At least she landed flat on the floor, not upside down in a box!  No phone, no call button on a chain, no hope of rescue.


Kick Boxing

By now it’s getting pretty warm in that box and the sweat is starting to flow.  I decide to pull my legs in until my feet are below the top of the box.  I start kicking.  Thump, thump, thump.  Who thought cardboard could be so tough?  Thump, thump.  The box is becoming a sauna.  More thumps, more grunts.  This box is starting to tick me off!  KICK!  Br-r-rip.  The corner starts to give way.  KICK!  Br-r-rip.  KICK!  Br-r-rip.  The edge has split down about a foot.  A couple more kicks and I’m able to drop my legs through the opening, straightening my body enough to ease the weight from my shoulders.  A little extra effort and I push myself backward and out of my de facto prison.  Ta-da!  Drum roll, please.



Okay.  No drum roll, no spotlight.  But I was free!  This chick had hatched!  In fact, I did feel rather like one of those soggy little peepers.  My clothes were all damp and sticky and my hair was a disheveled mess of clammy strings, morphing into tentacles framing my face.  I looked like Medusa—but without the charm.

When the dizziness subsided I wobbled through the house to my bathroom for a shower.  On the way I resolved that next time I decide to storm any corrugated bunkers, I’ll arm myself with a box cutter and attack from the outside in.


©2011 The Wit’s End Scribbler

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