It’s not that I look for trouble — it just seems that it (or its cousin, mischief) always seems to find me. I’ll be walking along minding my business when, from seemingly nowhere (or, actually, from somewhere, if I’d been paying attention) there trouble is, tapping me on the shoulder, and, when I turn around with a smile, planting a cream pie right on the kisser. To wit:

Waking up in the middle of the night, getting out of bed to use the bathroom, and not realizing that not all of me is awake — that is, that my foot is still sound asleep. And what happens when you get out of bed and put all your weight on a foot that’s not awake? It rolls under you, you fall on it like a ton of bricks, and your (or in this case, my) toe breaks.

Taking a brisket out of the oven after it has been cooking for nearly four hours at 350 degrees — you do the math on how hot that roasting pan is — and grabbing the potholder too hastily. Unfortunately, instead of there being a heatproof pad between me and said roasting pan’s handle, there was nothing. Nothing but bare knuckles, that is. Add to that the troublemaker voice inside that kept saying, “Yes, your hand is burning, but no, don’t drop the pan!” At least the brisket ended up unscathed (although I did need B.’s help in slicing it).

Practicing drawing “flower child” designs on my hand using what I thought were washable markers but grabbing a Sharpie instead. Oops. (I should have known — hadn’t my hand been through enough with the brisket fiasco?) You know, the art wasn’t bad. Spending days trying to get rid of the ink was. Talk about your scarlet letter (and daisies and peace signs).

What makes me such a willing participant in finding ways to get into trouble? My propensity to head into situations (actually, life in general) wholeheartedly; my tendency to be thinking of something else at the time most of the time (“The bed is going to be so warm and cozy when I get back!” “Wouldn’t egg noodles be good with the brisket?” “Maybe I should take drawing classes?”); and my love of creating things. Mischief being one of them.

Like yesterday at the supermarket. I meant to pick peaches that in no way would compromise the pyramid-of-peaches display. But, there is the slight chance I was distracted, thinking, “A peach pie sounds delicious — what other ingredients do I need?” And that’s when I plucked the wrong block out of the proverbial peach Jenga puzzle and all peach hell broke loose — store clerks running to help, customers running out of the way, and me running through a list of other stores I can shop in next week instead.

The only advice I can offer myself is to pause before progressing. To wait a minute before proceeding. To sketch things out in pencil instead of ink.

And to opt for non-rolling fruit next time.

© 2020 Claudia Grossman