Ow.

Sometimes I wonder exactly how many days of my life have been spent carrying furniture up and down the stairs. Three full-apartment moves in four years, each located in multiple-story walk-ups, and each followed by the acquisition of additional furniture... it all means that I (and everyone I could guilt-trip into helping me) have devoted an awful lot of time to the lifting and carrying of large objects.

This weekend, it was a dresser. It started out alright -- we lifted it out of the car and carried it into the building with no problem, stopped for just a moment (grip readjustment), and then started lugging it up the first flight of stairs.

"It's tipping," said Brad.
"It's not."
"It is."
"Ok, hang on," I said, "Just let me... yikes!"

There was a scraping noise. One drawer -- only one -- had succumbed to the pull of gravity and was now hanging open.

"Drawer! Drawer open!" I yelled. "We have to put down the dresser!"
"No, it's ok," said Brad. "I'll close it."
"Really?"
"Yeah, if you can hold up your side."
"Okay," I said, steadying myself.
"You ready?"
"Ready."
"Okay, I've got this," he said. He snaked one hand around the front of the dresser, and then, autoritatively, slammed the drawer shut.

A white-hot bolt of excruciating pain.
A white-hot bolt of excruciating pain in a very weird, nay, impossible location.

I screamed.
"What?" said Brad.
I was not interested in talking.
"AAAAAAAGH!"
"What?!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"
"What the hell is wrong with you?!"
"AAAGH OW ow ow ow ow owyoumotherfucker."
"Huh? What did I do?"

I glared at him.
"You closed the drawer on my nipple."

Yeah.

Of course, there was a slight spatial difference between the plane of The Side of the Dresser (against which I was pressed for leverage) and the plane of The Open Drawer.

Of course, my right-hand bosom would escape into the gap created by that slight difference...

(Fig. 32A)

...thus subjecting itself to an impromptu mammogram when the drawer was shut.


Brad's look-on-the-bright-side assertions nonwithstanding ("I guess this means you have big boobs, right?"), if this ever happens again, somebody will have to die.