A couple of weeks ago, I did a favor job setting up a kid’s day camp. Which was fine – it’s good for the delinquents to get off the street, and I got grocery money.
Every little bit helps, right?
The only problem is that part of the job was lifting some fairly heavy boxes (unassembled bookshelves, mainly). Which was also fine, except that my partner in said lifting was a 17-year-old camp counselor who didn’t understand how to do things like communicate with a partner, or keep hanging on when asked to.
Me: “I’m going to step back to get around this…”
Kid: “Step back?”
(loud crash and scream)
Box, meet toe.
I can’t even be mad about it.
I’ve had more years than I care to admit to learn to do this stuff without killing my partner. All of us who do this sort of thing for a living develop the understanding of how to work with a partner – how to communicate, how to read body language, how to walk backwards while carrying a slippery dimmer pack up equally slippery stairs, how to NOT LET GO.
But we all remember the day when we didn’t know it.
Just like the kid. And the feeling that one gets when one hurts a co-worker is terrible. So yelling wouldn’t have done anything other than crush Junior’s tender spirit.
Lucky for me, the toe’s not broken, it’s just… horrible. And kind of throbbing, but I’m so grossed out by the idea of stabbing it with a needle that I’m just going to tough it out.
No sandals for me this summer!
Or, toenail polish, which I don’t normally wear, but I’m sure it’s better than the black blob.