For days now (I’m thinking more than a week’s worth), my son's guitar has been sitting in its stand in front of the spare bedroom closet. Each morning and night, I fumble around it getting or returning clothes. And each day, I say something to him about moving it.
Yesterday, I tripped over it. I knew this would happen.
“I TOLD YOU a hundred times TO MOVE THAT DAMN THING. GET IN THERE AND MOVE IT. NOWWWW!”
He reappeared and said, “I moved it by the elliptical. There’s no danger of you being anywhere near it now.”
It’s my own fault, really.