When getting to know someone new or training a caregiver, I always make a point to tell them that when they spot something amiss with my appearance to let me know and/or just go ahead and fix it. So, if I have a gap between my jeans and shirt or there is something in my teeth, they should treat it the same way they would if it happened to them. That said, I have a few longtime before-injury-guy-friends who, especially in the beginning, either didn’t notice or didn’t care if something was off. Unbeknownst to me, I’d be rolling around town with my hair sticking up, or even worse, my bra would sometimes shift enough during lift transfers to make it look distinctly like I had four boobs. The worst, though, was seeing my reflection after a long day of beers and fun at the ballpark. Before the game, my friend and I shared a messy turkey and avocado sandwich. Years later, I clearly remember the large blob of bright green guacamole that had apparently been peeking out of my right nostril all day.
A few weeks after being released from rehab, I visited my local Honda dealership to select a van that would eventually be equipped with a hydraulic transfer seat. Halfway through a day of test drives and price negotiating, I was startled by the rumblings of an unexpected and explosive bowel accident. Mortified but optimistic, I hoped no one else was the wiser. I made up an excuse and did my best to make a quick exit. To my dismay, nerves and inexperience caused me to misjudge my transfer and I ended up on the ground in a rapidly expanding and foul-smelling mess. Defeated, I had to recruit two well-dressed young salesmen to help lift me up and into my car as poo fell from my pant leg. I left a mark on the parking lot, those dealers and the cloth seats of my old car that day. In the end, I did return to buy a van and even upgraded to the easier-cleaning leather seats.
— Crappy Sale
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