Getting Physical: Another Blog About Hazards in the Workplace

At first I preferred to think of it as Tough Love. I later decided that it was simply Verbal Abuse. But when I returned home from My Very Own Fabric Store last night looking like this...

"The Day it Got Physical" (Kate, Pencake Ecards, 1/18/10)

...I recognized its name: Physical Abuse.

Oh, yeah. That's what it was, all right. Not that she actually pulled that huge roll of decorator fabric down on my face, but she was just as responsible for my injury as if she had!

If she had not just chided me for working too slowly as I measured and cut massive quantities of fleece fabric, stopping between each cut to re-roll the fabric left on the bolt so that it could more easily be replaced later...

If the memory of her hounding me as I pushed a dustmop over that filthy floor last weekend, pointing out every dustball that managed to escape my reach, was not still relatively fresh in my mind...

If I hadn't been reflecting earlier about how she had chastised me for spending too much time with my customers, walking around the store with them, helping them decide what might work best for their various projects...

Well, then I might not have been so angry that I let Rage take the place of Reason. But she had, it was, and I had been.

So there I was, trying to replace one of those gi-normous rolls of Home Dec on its metal rod, holding it over my head, blindly trying to find the right slot for that rubber-tipped pole, all the while fantasizing about how I would say, Look, Bitch! I do a good job around here, okay? I'm not even allowed to touch sharp objects at home! I have my own skill-set, and it doesn't include running with scissors and mopping floors. Maybe my gift is that I know how to be nice to people. So maybe you should just shut up and start sweeping!

Unfortunately, anger is not compatible with jobs that require manual dexterity. I thought I had located the bracket that would hold the end of that rod securely as I slid the other end into place; I thought incorrectly.

I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but the next thing I knew, a heavy roll of cream-colored brocade was crashing into my face, knocking my glasses askew and tenderizing my nose. (I'm okay. The two tears that I surreptitiously let fall were more from my frustration at not being able to actually say those things than from pain.) I didn't realize until later, when I felt the scab on my chin as I waited for a customer to hand over the cash, that I had been scarred by the experience.

Physical Abuse, it was. Sigh. Wish I could find my rose-colored glasses!