I’m not always the best at keeping my priorities straight. Part of the issue is that when I’m depressed to the point that eating five gingerbread men for dinner and sleeping for eleven hours seems like a good idea, safety isn’t at the top of my list. Appeasing my husband is, however, something I’m working on doing more often. It’s only fair—he’s the kind of man who happily lets me eat all the chocolate from his Advent calendar, bless his overworked heart.
Shortly after my first concussion, he suggested that I get a helmet. The conversation went something like this:
“You should get a helmet.”
“You mean like Natalie Portman in Garden State?”
“Yeah, kind of like that.”
“I don’t like Natalie Portman.”*
“Is that relevant?”
“I’d look like an idiot. People would laugh.”
“What’s worse, looking like an idiot or head injury?”
“Anyway, I’m not asking you to wear it in front of anyone. Just at night, at home.”
“You’d laugh at me.”
“Probably just the first time.”
That was that. No helmet. I am, as should be abundantly clear by now, a stubborn asshole, and despite Andrew’s subsequent promise that he was only kidding and would definitely not chuckle at my EVR-swathed noggin, I refused to purchase one.
Until a few weeks ago, when I finally caved and agreed to order a toque-protective-head-gear hybrid.
I’ve yet to really wear it. I’m ok with the idea, but it’s kind of uncomfortable, and donning a hat indoors is a little awkward. I pick it up every once in a while and admire the ingenuity of its design; the next, more difficult step will be putting it on my head and leaving it there. Obduracy is a dangerous trait.
*I don’t actually dislike you, Natalie, I’m just willing to say whatever’s necessary to win an argument.