Meathead, Part II

So while it might seem fine to suffer life-threatening accidents in one’s own time, dealing with their consequences at work leaves a little something to be desired. The impact of the bench-press bar being dropped on my head left me with quite a shiner the following day. I had an imprint on my cheek below my eye, as if I had smeared on some purplish war paint before playing American football. This was going to be hard to explain to co-workers come Tuesday morning.

I managed to saunter in without too much bother, but was soon cornered in the kitchen by some inquisitors.

“Taken a knock to the head?” someone asked.

My formulated excuse was simple. I had slipped on some wet tiles in my kitchen, thanks to the slovenly lifestyle choices of my ‘stupid’ flatmates. I hadn’t just fallen over, but had spun into the air as if in some awful Hollywood comedy aimed at under-tweens and frat boys, using only my face to grab onto a kitchen work surface to decelerate my descent. Thusly, I had twatted myself.

But why the excuse in the first place? Vanity, I suppose. And also a dying hope to save some face, as it were. People at my work already thought I was stupid, so why give them further evidence of my stupidity in my private life? It would only add to my reputation as an idiot that I was such a weakling that I collapsed under weights in the gym. Slipping in water could befall anyone, no matter how muscly, and seemed the perfect cover-up.

I did however miss an opportunity to make the entire fiasco fully acceptable. Somebody put two and two together and asked the following question, “Were you drunk?” Although it was a Monday night, had I confessed inebriation, I would have enjoyed a little of legend status among the self-proclaimed office banter-mongers, hopping from desk to desk saying, “Ha, golly, Rob is such a legend – apparently he was wasted and smacked himself in the face with a kitchen worktop.” Not needing this validation, I replied, with a vague sense of honesty, that I was not drunk.

I have missed this chance previously when telling another colleague about the state of my IKEA bed. Namely, that all the slats seem to be falling through the frame at will, leading to my suspicion that the bed has been broken. “ Were you shagging on it?” was apparently the obvious question, and to me, the obvious answer was, “Er, no.” There was a girl in the bed but no conjugal thrusting shattered those slats. Had this been the case, I would have again achieved a big of ‘ledge’ status among the bored and the artless. Never mind.

But back to my sore head. Throughout the next day I failed to be productive at all. This was, of course, no different to my usual professional performance, but only on this day I felt sick AND I had a headache. I later realised this might have been concussion. Having felt like a fool all day, I resolved that I was owed a day off and followed up with a sickie the morning after. Surely massive head injury had earned me a lie-in and some prolonged channel-surfing.

I’m not sure work were bothered by my absence. They were also slightly indifferent the best part of a month and a bit later when I handed in my notice. “It’s not for you, is it?” my line manager asked sweetly. Erm, not really. They were at pains to point out I did not need to see out my notice period, but I was clear that I needed to stay for at least one more payday.

I thought I might finally reveal the truth about my head injury once my departure was imminent. That I might confess that the purplish line that gradually turned deep brown before migrating up my face and circling my eye, leading to my resembling a boozer pugilist, was in fact down to my utter failure as a gym-user, rather than attributable to any comedy mishap brought about by my flatmates’ antipathy towards a tidy kitchen. But I didn’t.