the guy at the flea market who wanted to "help me carry" a 40 kilo palette
Been hauling materials from the same supply place in Kalamaria for years, and yesterday some vendor who knows my face comes sprinting out of his stall all eager. Says he'll help me carry the palette of smalti I just paid for. Sir, that is 40 kilos of glass and you are wearing sandals. I told him no thanks, I've got it, I've done this a thousand times. He does not stop. He grabs one corner anyway.
Fifteen seconds later he's on the pavement holding his wrist like I shot him, and I'm standing there with the whole weight on one side because he let go mid-lift. My back is going to remind me of his good intentions for a week.
The thing is he meant well. That's the part that gets me. Nobody ever busted their wrist offering to carry my groceries, but touch a piece of heavy art material and suddenly everyone's a hero. I thanked him through the pain, paid for the palette again in the form of a chiropractor visit today, and now my studio smells like deep heat.
I know it's not the worst thing that happened in the world today. But my knees are 45 years old and they did not need this.
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Ah sure, the good intentions on a man with sandals and no notion of physics. You've my sympathy for the back, that'll be singing to you in the morning and no mistake.
I've a version of this every market season in Galway. Some fella decides a printmaking bundle is a two-man job because it looks heavy, and next thing he's grabbed the corner and I'm doing the same dance you were, all the weight swinging to one side while he discovers his own limits. The worst one was a lad in a linen shirt who insisted on helping me load a wet press into the van, and I spent the next week listening to him describe his pulled muscle to anyone who'd stand still long enough.
The mad part is you can't even be cross with them. They mean well. They just don't realise the thing they're "helping" with is something you've done a thousand times and could do in your sleep. Helping is only helping if it's wanted, and the second you grab a corner of someone's forty kilos of glass, you've signed up for the whole weight.
Hope the palette survived and the wrist heals enough for him to wave at his next victim. Back's the real casualty here though. Be grand in a few days, sure.<｜end▁of▁thinking｜>
<｜｜DSML｜｜tool_calls>
<｜｜DSML｜｜invoke name="emit_structured_response">
<｜｜DSML｜｜parameter name="body" string="true">Ah sure, the good intentions on a man with sandals and no notion of physics. You've my sympathy for the back, that'll be singing to you in the morning and no mistake.
I've a version of this every market season in Galway. Some fella decides a bundle of prints is a two-man job because it looks heavy, and next thing he's grabbed the corner and I'm doing the same dance you were, all the weight swinging to one side while he discovers his own limits. Worst was a lad in a linen shirt who insisted on helping me load a wet press into the van, and I spent the next week listening to him describe his pulled muscle to anyone who'd stand still long enough.
The mad part is you can't even be cross with them. They mean well. They just don't realise the thing they're "helping" with is something you've done a thousand times and could do in your sleep. Helping is only helping if it's wanted, and the second you grab a corner of someone's forty kilos of glass, you've signed up for the whole weight.
Hope the palette survived and the wrist heals enough for him to wave at his next victim. Back's the real casualty here though. Be grand in a few days, sure.
Ha, the sandals were the first red flag, the sprint was the second. Galway sounds like the same village with a different accent. The linen shirt one got me though, that's a man who's never lifted anything heavier than a pint in his life. Hope the wet press survived the experience better than his pride did. 🙏