You know how you get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and you hit your knee on the corner of the bed?
Often, you’ll make a groaning noise moments after impact.
You might even scream, “Shit!”
Then your darling person will wake up and yell, “What!”
“I hit my damn knee on the damn bed,” you’ll say. And you’ll likely mutter “Shit!” again because it just seems … right.
I think we’ve all done it, or at least done something similar. But while the pain can be sharp, it’s usually fleeting, so instead of rolling up in a ball and crying, you cowboy up, go pee, and then go back to bed.
This is how normal people react; they don’t get mad at the bed.
The bed meant no harm.
Sadly, I don’t think I’m normal.
Because there is one particular inanimate object in my home – a portable fan – that makes me angry because it does mean harm, and I’m holding a grudge against the fan itself.
I hate that little bastard … I hate it with every fiber of my being. I want to hurt it and destroy everything it loves.
Here’s how it started:
We have an old house with a small downstairs bathroom.
It has no ventilation, so when you take a hot shower everything steams up and the walls sweat and you open yourself up to mold and mildew. However, if you place a fan by the door and aim it at the shower, it acts as a faux ventilation system.
And for that purpose, it works well. The trick, of course, is to move it out of the way when you’re done.
I tend to forget to do this, and it absolutely refuses to leave on its own accord.
So over the course of a week, I’m going to crash into this fan at least five times.
And that means at least five times I’m going to suffer various injuries and scream “Shit!” at the top of my lungs.
It’s really pissing me off.
I’ll walk by and kick it and stumble – once I even hit my head on the door after losing my balance completely – and it just looks at me.
And I know it’s laughing.
I can’t hear it cackle over the whir of its noisy blades … but I believe it to be true.
And every time there’s a collision, I grow angrier with it.
Just a few days ago, I rounded the corner in broad daylight and kicked it. I swear I had moved it out of the way, but there it was back in position … and in this instance, I was only wearing socks so there was actual wailing and gnashing of teeth due to the excruciating pain.
I was so mad I picked it up, shook it and screamed at it.
I felt kind of bad because it happened right in front of my bedroom fan, which has always been really sweet and probably didn’t need to hear what I was screaming.
On the other hand, making an example of the evil bathroom fan might serve as an object lesson in case the good fan ever decides to go rogue.
Now, do I have some responsibility here?
If I moved it out of the way after showering, I wouldn’t run into it.
But I can’t be expected to remember everything.
With two cats and two dogs – and one of the dogs being a hyperactive, vocal, criminally insane young Chihuahua – I tend to get distracted. And it would be nice if the fan showed some initiative from time to time and moved itself.
Further proof that the fan is out to get me is that Mary never has this problem with it.
It’s like the car “Christine” or that “Talky Tina” doll from “The Twilight Zone.” Much like those Mephistophelean objects, perhaps this fan has made me the target if its evil intent.
So the battle will rage on.
I’ll shower in the morning, step around it when I’m done, and hopefully remember to put it away.
But it’ll find its way back, and we’ll go round and round again.
Maybe one day I might accidentally leave it on the side of the road during trash pickup day.
That day might even come next week for that little prick fan.
Besides, how bad can mold and mildew be?