Oopsie Daisy

Marla King has always been a klutz.  For every fall we take, Marla takes ten.  For each visit we make to our family doctor, Marla makes two to the emergency room.  We take to our beds with the flu, Marla takes to her bed in traction.

Marla started stumbling through life when she was one.  A baby gate couldn’t stop her from tumbling down the stairs, just as flashing lights and a police barricade couldn’t stop her from riding by the scene of a three-star blaze at the age of ten and breaking her leg when she lost control of her bike on a fire hose.  If she’s drunk enough, you can get her to show you the scar on her abdomen caused by running through a storm door whose windows were so clean she failed to notice them.  Then there’s the knee she had operated on after she tripped over a stick in the backyard.  The long line of stitches she received after absent mindedly sewing a fish to her thumb during a high school taxidermy project.  The burn mark permanently etched on her hand from the time she thought she could turn a steak over on the grill with her bare hand.  Plus the two toes missing on her right foot from a lawn mowing incident.  These things barely scratch the surface of her injuries, but they’re enough to give you a clear picture of how every second of every day is just another opportunity for Marla to have one of her infamous oopsie daisy moments.

You would think that Marla would have learned by now to exercise caution, but no.  Marla now finds herself at a physiotherapist’s office, seeking relief from a groin injury brought on from raking leaves.

“My goodness, you have endured a lot of injuries in your lifetime,” her physiotherapist says.

“I know, it’s crazy.  Why these things keep happening is beyond me,” Marla says trying to keep the mood light and her embarrassment at bay.

“That’s because you were a mafia enforcer in a past life,” her physiotherapist informs her.

“Come again?”

“It was your job to punish those behind on their loan payments.  You inflicted a lot of pain on people and this is karma’s way of getting back at you.”

“And you think this because…?” a confused Marla asks.

“I make money on the side by doing past life regression for people.  Consider that a freebie, but if you want to know what other things you were up to over the course of history, here’s my private number.   Now, here’s a list of stretches I want you to do at home.”

Was Marla a mafia enforcer in a past life?  That would explain a lot, and explain why she’s now on her way to mass to pray for forgiveness just in case.

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