Living alone sometimes requires a MacGyver-like ingenuity that I secretly believe I have. I've scaled kitchen counters to reach the wine at the top of the cabinet; I've hammered in nails with sturdy flashlights; and I've sprayed unwelcome spiders with Costco-sized bottles of 409.
Single, self-sufficient, and above all, resourceful, I thought I had conquered all the trials and tribulations of living alone. But just as I started to congratulate myself on my unabashed independence, a run-in with my sneaky, sliding screen door halted my self-adoration.
Like any pale-skinned Seattleite starved for the sun, I jumped at the chance to bask in the warmth of the city's first sunny day. So I threw on my suit, slid on my shades and sprawled my towel out on to the balcony to sunbathe and read.
After an hour of reading about the incestuous antics of the ancient Greeks - whose careless oofing had generated the abnormal hermaphrodite gene (at least according to the book I was reading) - I scooped up my towel and headed back inside.
I jostled the handle of my screen door to slide it open. At the first unsuccessful tug, I knew I was screwed. I pulled at it a few more times before giving into the fact that I was undoubtedly LOCKED out.
But ever the cool detective, I followed my MacGyver like instincts and scoured the balcony for something to jimmy the lock. With nothing metal, long and skinny in sight, I picked up a twig from my half-dead Hyacinth plant. Determined and calm, I stuck that twig somewhere between the door and the wall. Two seconds later, as my twig snapped in half, PANIC struck.
I jolted suddenly back and forth across my balcony, like a rat on crack in a small space. I paced erratically, sneaking peaks at the sidewalk four floors down. Head in my hands and muttering to myself, I cursed the sun for shining and my stupid, sliding screen door for locking me out.
[The Enemy]
I thought about calling out for help, or beckoning someone below to hold out their arms and catch. I even toyed with the idea of tying together my clothes and rappelling down the rainwater pipe; however, the realities of my own coordination got the best of me, and I opted for the less agile solution.
[The rainwater pipe]
After 25 minutes of rash, erratic panic, I soothed my nerves and faced that screen door with a Zen determination. Calm and cool like Karate Kid, I stared down that sliding door, raised my fist, stuck out my nails, and jabbed.
(Ever see Kill Bill II where Uma Thurman punched her way out of the hardwood coffin buried in the ground? Picture that EXACT same scene, but instead of Uma Thurman, think of me; and instead of a hardwood coffin six feet under, imagine a thin, net-like screen.) I stabbed that screen door until I punctured it with my nail. Then I poked my finger through the tiny opening and flipped up the latch that had locked me out in the first place.
(Ever see Kill Bill II where Uma Thurman punched her way out of the hardwood coffin buried in the ground? Picture that EXACT same scene, but instead of Uma Thurman, think of me; and instead of a hardwood coffin six feet under, imagine a thin, net-like screen.) I stabbed that screen door until I punctured it with my nail. Then I poked my finger through the tiny opening and flipped up the latch that had locked me out in the first place.
[The Wound]
I was SAVED, and after only an hour of plotting and executing my escape. I immediately called Angela to tell her of my harrowing, near-death experience.
Since every story supposedly has a moral, here's what Ive learned from this ordeal:
Since every story supposedly has a moral, here's what Ive learned from this ordeal:
- Never lock yourself out on a balcony.
- ALWAYS give a friend your extra set of keys, especially when you live alone, and despite your alleged MacGyver-like instinct.
