Don't Let the Door
Hit You on the Way In
While it may sound like a difficult thing to do, even accidentally, I actually have an illustrious history of hitting myself in the head with car doors — and yet, somehow, I am still surprised every time that metal door frame caroms off my temple. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.
I recall one time I was about to leave on a road trip to a reunion with some old college buddies when I opened the car door, which proceeded to sock me square in the bridge of my nose and slice my glasses in half. I wound up having to go to the reunion with masking tape holding my glasses together, and if you know anything about old college buddies you know this is not the type of thing they let slide by unmentioned.
What happened this morning was, my car was parked under a tree whose branches had become weighted down with ice overnight, forcing me to duck as I entered my car — and putting my head in optimum position for a hearty door drubbing. My forehead is still throbbing three hours later, but my eye has stopped twitching, which I take to be a good sign.
Now, I’m not aware of anyone else for whom this is a pressing problem, and if you look at the physics of the thing it really shouldn’t be much of an issue for me either — open door, step into vehicle. (Although I think the doors on late-model Chevy Cavaliers like mine may extend a bit farther back than those on other cars; the thought of people accidentally leaning into them like Moe leaning into a moving pie is probably a big laugh-getter back at the plant.)
But design flaws aside, what is it that’s causing my body, unbeknownst to me, to enter cars before waiting for my arm to actually finish opening the doors to said cars? Upon further contemplation, I’ve determined that it happens for the following reason: I’m a genius.
Bear with me; what I mean is my brain may be so busy contemplating weighty world issues that it forgets about the simple things, like getting out of the way of oncoming doors. I may be onto something here — I don’t think it’s been officially documented, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Einstein had trouble getting in and out of his Studebaker.
It’s a theory that would explain much of my general klutziness over the years. For instance, it could account for the fact that, every day for the past 30 years, I’ve walked into something — bed, dresser, recycling bin, person coming around the corner, moving vehicle, etc. Prior to that, I crawled into things.
It would also explain:
· The time I ice skated into Dominica Ochigrosso’s snorkel jacket, catching my braces on it and forcing a highly embarrassing 20-minute extrication process.
· The time I looked down in my car to change the radio station and wound up taking out a series of poorly positioned mailboxes.
· The sliding glass door incident.
Perhaps my mind has been so preoccupied with more important concerns — world peace, cold fusion, choosing radio stations, etc. — that concentrating on piddly issues such as not walking and/or driving into things is simply out of the question.
Regardless, it’s something I’ve learned to live with it over the years. Sure, it’s held me back in certain areas, such as career choice; most hospital patients, for instance, would not want a surgeon who was unable to successfully enter his car uninjured. I can see that.
And construction, too, is out — in fact, my wife has insisted that I not get involved with her family’s construction business, knowing that any activity involving a power saw, a nail gun, a roof and a guy who hits himself in the head with car doors is not bound to end up well. So I’m here making a living as a journalist instead, although it’s hard to concentrate on writing with my head pounding like this.
I wonder if Einstein ran into that problem with the theory of relativity.