When you were a kid did you spend a lot of time singing into a fan because you thought the way it made your voice sound was pretty cool? I did too. If your parents were like mine this singing usually came with about 832 warnings that if you stick your fingers in the fan you were going to lose one. Visions of bloody stumpy appendages danced in my head and usually cut short whatever great bit of musical brilliance I was creating.
Well, I am here to tell you that the bloody finger loss is a lie. Well, at least it’s a lie when it comes to ceiling fans.
I know this because many times a week I manage to shove some part of my hand between the blades of the whirring ceiling fan and I still have all my fingers. The only thing that happens is the blades stop and you get showered in dust. You might sneeze.
So why, uh, am I shoving my hands in the ceiling fan? Because the ceiling is low (at least in my estimation) and I am tall and it’s virtually impossible to take my shirt off in my bedroom or make my bed without hitting the fan.
I’ve mostly solved the shirt problem by getting dressed and undressed at the top of the stairs (right outside my bedroom door). But it’s not perfect, because sometimes I have visions of plunging down the stairs with my shirt wrapped around my face, the paramedics finding my lifeless body, naked from the waist up four weeks after my death.
But the bed making, that’s a stumper. Every time I hear the thunk of the blade coming into contact with my hand, I snatch it down to my chest and look up expecting to see blood spattered everywhere, my mom’s “you’ll lose a finger” ringing in my ears, and every time I’m a little disappointed. I grew up in a house of lies, and the pain of that, oh it burns.