Cirque de Nagasawa
I don’t really know what came over me, but this past weekend I decided I would do my annual cleaning of our air conditioner filters.
Did I say annual? It’s probably more like millennial.
The reason I do it so infrequently is because the unit in our living room is about 20 feet up from the floor. That means I have to drag out my aluminum extention ladder. It’s a cheaper knock-off version of those “Little Giant” ladders.
In fact I think it’s called a “Collapseable Death Fall Ladder.”
That was my first mistake. The second was doing this in front of my mom as she watched TV. From the second that I started my ascent up the ladder, my mom gave a rung-by-rung warning for me not to fall. In fact, she insisted I get down.
I told her not to worry that I was as agile as a cat. I’m sure she was thinking Garfield or some Japanese equivalent.
The filter cleaning of the unit was uneventful, although my mom was watching my every move, ready to dial 9-1-1.
That’s when I noticed that behind me was our ceiling fan, coated with dust. I went back down and retrieved a broomstick so I could hold the blades from spinning with one hand using the stick while I vacuumed it with the other.
This is while I twist 180 degrees away from the rungs. My mom went berserk.
Just then the phone rang so she turned away to answer it. That was exactly the same time I lost my footing and literally did a half-twist summersault in the air.
I landed feet first on our leather couch and like a trampoline it propelled me back in the air. I then traveled across the room and ended up in a sitting position next to my mom.
Oblivious to what just happened, she hung up the phone and said, “Good, you finally listened to me.”