Introducing the amazing Adam and his stupefying feats of physical misfortune.

Why is it that we take so much joy from an infant’s struggles with motor coordination? Why just the other day we were chuckling over Adam’s latest attempts to sit up unassisted. His poor little head was ducking and weaving like a wanna-be on The Contender. (The author feels compelled to advise you that he has never actually seen an episode of The Contender.)

Once upon a time, I went miniature golfing with a mixed group of friends (both adult and child sized). I was putting along, having a grand time, when I noticed the uneven pour of the concrete sidewalk. With full knowledge of it’s unpredictability, I decided to bounce my ball on said sidewalk. Just as I predicted, the ball went shooting off on a path skewed from gravity’s well. Thanks to my cat-like reflexes, I was able to snatch the ball out of the air before it bounced off into oblivion.

As it turns out, I also own this bridge that I’d be willing to part with – for a very reasonable price.

No, it wasn’t my cat-like reflexes that failed me, it was my human length arms. You see; a golf ball has a relatively small diameter – as balls go. This relatively small diameter lends itself to a whole heapin’ helpin’ of bad bounces on an uneven surface – like a hastily poured concrete sidewalk. So while my reaction was easily sufficient to grab the ball – the darn thing shot off nearly parallel to the ground. I’d need the reflexes of a cat (check) and the arms of an orangutan (Houston, we have a problem).

So it was that I was the first person in our motley crew to lose my ball. While I was close to the median age for our group, two of us were under eight – and I don’t mean that in a good way. And yet, strangely I felt this was a badge of honor. Not just anyone can lose a golf ball waiting in line. I takes someone special, dare I say truly gifted, to lose his ball waiting in line – and manage to have said ball leave the course altogether. Damn, I am good.

As a general rule, metal is a better conductor than cloth woven from natural fibers. Heck, I’ll go out on a limb and wager that metals tend to be better conductors than many man-made substances found in clothing. As a general rule, I shouldn’t wager too much based on my knowledge of the “physical sciences” – as it extends only so far as you can throw a Florida public servant (such as the author). The word “conductor” has intentionally been left as non-specific as possible, allowing the greatest possibility for accuracy.

As many stories go, this little exercise in intellectual futility has it’s roots in a real live experience.

Laundry.

It has the same number of syllables as “Newman!” While the two words have little else in common, they can be spoken in a similar manner. Laundry is the bane of my existence – yes, more than yard work. It is always there – like bugs in the forest – multiplying and feeding on your enthusiasm like a forgotten Snicker’s Bar on the great camping trip of life. Because it is always there, there is endless experience dealing with it. And yet, like that Snicker’s Bar – there’s always the possibility for surprise (heaven forbid the A/C was off in the break room over the weekend). Take under-wire bras, for example. Who knew they’d leave a crescent moon shaped burn on flesh with sufficient exposure to the elements in your average, household clothes dryer? Hell if I did, until this evening that is. I’d expect as much from jeans – those little rivet bastards in Levi’s will get you every time. But bras?