The F Word

So being home all week and weekend didn't help my writing productivity seeing as I've wanted to write this particular blog since last Sunday. But I've decided to attempt it anyway, even though the idea isn't as fresh in my mind. So here goes...

I am not usually a fan of the F word. I find it vulgar, unoriginal and generally offensive. Of all the swear words, it makes my skin crawl and I feel a strong aversion to the actual meaning of the word. But there are times, yes there are times, when I feel that it might be the only word to express my emotions, and last Sunday was one of those times.

It started as a normal Katie day. If you've spent any time with me you know that I am a klutz to match all klutzes. Herb is often afraid of my love of cooking for fear that I might cut off a finger or burn the nerves in my hand off. So in true Katie style, I'm standing in my parents shower (we were in Phoenix for D-backs games) grabbing the towel to dry off when the world goes to pieces...well really just the towel rack. As I grabbed the towel, the rack completely came apart sending the rod sailing through the air to land vertically on the top of my foot. So now I'm standing there naked, on one foot crying out in pain. My foot swelled and there's still a gorgeous bruise there 7 days later. I thought that this was bad enough, but I refrained from using the four letter F expletive. It just didn't seem appropriate at that moment in time (perhaps because I am developing some sort of parental filter, perhaps).

(And here I make an addendum, I would just like to say in my defense that while I'm accident prone, in this particular situation it was wholly not my fault that the rod came apart at that moment. In this particular case, some sort of cosmic force was out to impale me with bathroom fixtures and I was not seeking this injury of my own accord. Now that I've defended myself, I will present instance two where I was definitely responsible for my own fate.)

Sunday night, Herb and I found ourselves home round about 7 o'clock after a gruelling D-backs loss. I dropped Herb and our worldly goods off at the house and hopped back in the car to head for the grocery store. As I was chatting with Melinda on the phone, I reached in to grab a jar of tomato sauce from the shelf and as I pulled my hand away, low and behold my finger scraped across the top of the shelf. I had effectively ripped open the knuckle on my pointer finger and now I was bleeding everywhere. I went to first aid at the front of the store where I bled all over the counter and finally managed to get a band-aid around my finger. I hadn't eaten in 6 hours so I was beginning to feel a little light headed, but hey, I'm me, and I went back and finished my grocery shopping. It was at this moment, as my finger was throbbing, my foot was throbbing, and I felt like I was going to vomit that I felt the F word to be appropriate. I could find no other word to truly express my frustration and pain and anger at my predicament.

It didn't sound very ladylike and it wasn't very couth, but it was all I could conjure in that moment of weakness. I will continue to dissuade others from using this vulgar term as an unoriginal way to speak (you know the types, the types who want to use it as every part of speech because they think it makes them sound gangster, or whatever). But I will not begrudge those who need to use it as I did, in a moment of frailty when there are just no more words available to your brain. In that very rare case, I say, use that vulgar word and it will fit in just that moment and that moment only. And honestly, it feels pretty good for letting out all of those frustrations, but I can't imagine it feels that good all the time. I think the guilt would get to me...I am a role model for language and for moral behavior in general, and that word just lacks imagination. I want my words to have power, positive power, and the F word just falls short.