Life'll Kill Ya

On pleasant spring evenings, I have taken to reading outside on the front patio. As I do on such occasions-- weather allowing--I took my book and curled up in the plastic Adirondack chair last night, excited to read Wm. Gibson. His writing is pithy, his sentences carefully structured. It requires more concentration than reading a Stephen King novel, but less than the typical Philip Roth joint. 

For my next trick, I'll need a volunteer.

The last few weeks, each time I sit, within a couple of minutes the Adirondack chair shifts a bit, which I presumed was it settling. It feels as if the legs are spreading a couple of inches. The movement has been--or so I thought--no cause for concern--it always stopped after the initial brief shift. It had become so regular, so routine, I didn't pay much notice to it last night when a couple of minutes after sitting down, the chair began to shift. I imagine this was the attitude Harry Truman had when he felt the earth rumble just before the pyroclastic flow hit Spirit Lake. The shift started, and instead of lasting a second or so, the shift just  kept happening. It felt like I was on the shoulders of someone wearing roller-skates and their legs just kept spreading so that we were getting closer and closer to the floor until, POP!. the whole back of the chair came off. As I slid backward with the two sharp remnants of the backing digging into my love handles as I desperately tried to find purchase to prevent landing on the concrete. I found no joy. The bottom of the chair was pushed down on the ground, its legs and mine pointing in the air. I felt like glass was digging into my sides. 

Abby came out concerned, and helped me up. I need to quit scaring the poor child.