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.”

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