Breaking Into My Own House

I almost died the other day, atop the world's most cumbersome ladder. How, you might ask? Let's journey together back in time to Monday morning...

I go for a run every morning around the time that my dad leaves for work and my mom leaves for the gym. We've come to an agreement that they will leave the back door unlocked for me since I don't like to run with a key. (I'm sure my mother would disapprove of the fact that this is now public knowledge, so if you could not tell her that would be great.) However, when I returned Monday after a particularly exhausting hour of exercise, the door handle wouldn't budge. I'd been locked out.

In recounting this story to my dad Monday night, my mother was quick to point out that I would not have been locked out had I returned our spare key to its hiding place after, I reminded her, I had to retrieve it when she'd locked me out the previous evening. Considering I use the spare key maybe once a month, I hadn't anticipated needing it twice in less than twelve hours. But it appeared as though I did need it, and as I twisted furiously at the doorknob, hoping that my hands were just sweaty and weak, the spare key was resting comfortable on the kitchen counter, cackling at me.

No problem, I thought. I'll just go next door. Our neighbors have had a key to our house for years, so I knocked on the door and asked for it. Unfortunately, I realized as I climbed back up our steps with the key, we had the locks changed a few months ago and never gave our neighbors the new key. It was 8:30. My mom was due back at 10:30. I would have to wait outside for two hours. Well, shit.

I sat down on the back steps and did some analysis of the entrances into my house. The front door was out of the question, as were the French doors in the kitchen. The basement had a different lock and I didn't know of a spare key that would get me in there. The upstairs windows weren't locked but they were virtually impossible to open from the outside. Even if I could shimmy open the guest room window, I would first be required to climb the tree by the front door, crawl onto the roof, and do a flying leap over to the window where even best case scenario I would be dangling from the sill by my fingertips.

I was on the verge of despair when I remembered that because the previous night had been hot, and because and heat gets trapped in my second-story bedroom, I'd left the window open. Hallelujah! I thought, and made a beeline for the shed where the ladder was leaning against the scrap wood pile. I managed to tilt it sideways and slide it clear of the shed clutter, but when I bent down to carry it to my window I discovered that this was no ordinary ladder. No, this thing was a beast. Its rungs felt like they were filled with concrete. Somehow, though, I hoisted it onto my shoulders and staggered toward the house like a drunk cartoon character, half expecting to smash it straight into a tree or through a window.

A note about the area beneath my window: A fair amount of the soil is planted, and what space isn't covered with plants contains garden art or the fountain my mom and I built for my dad for Fathers Day years ago. Also, and don't ask me why, there are random piles of fist-sized rocks that serve no apparent purpose beyond just being frustrating. I was forced to navigate this delightful little garden with the world's heaviest ladder extended to full height, with soft soil under my feet and virtually zero level patches on which to place it.

I have a planter box outside my window, and it quickly became evident that I would have to lean the ladder against it rather than to the left of it. The problems with this were the following: 1) The planter box is starting to rot on the bottom and I didn't know how much weight it could support; 2) The ladder would only reach my window if I placed it between the fountain and the house (it would be too short if I moved it to the other side of the fountain), but this meant that the angle was closer to vertical than I felt comfortable climbing. I did it anyway, pulled myself halfway up the rungs, was overcome by images of falling to my death on the concrete steps, and climbed back down. I shifted the ladder a few inches farther out and tried again. Again I made it halfway up and again I scurried back down. Mind you, I was not climbing this ladder like a normal person. Because of the steep angle I was afraid that holding my body far enough away from the rungs that I could pull my knees up in front of me would create too much counterweight and pull the ladder over backwards. I therefore had to angle my body so that my left hip was scraping against the metal as I climbed up sideways, my legs crossing over each other to get to the next rung. Four failed attempts and about thirteen images of my own bloody death later, I finally managed to lean the ladder against the side of the house rather than against the planter box, thereby giving me an appropriate angle.

I reached the top, slid the window open further, and somehow magically (thank you, adrenaline!) shifted my weight onto the windowsill. I was about a third of the way into my room, my legs bruised and muddy and bleeding, when I looked toward my bed and saw my cat with her back arched, hair standing on end, hissing. "Taff, it's me!" I cried desperately, vowing, if I ever made it out of this alive, to reward her for her protective instincts with a tuna treat. But my voice did not have the soothing effect I had hoped, and Taffy lowered herself into pounce position. I clambered into my room and collapsed onto the carpet. Taff probably figured that even if I were a burglar there was nothing she could do about it now, and at least it meant there was someone in the house who might feed her. She stood up, walked over to me, and asked, I can only assume, why I hadn't used the back door like a normal person.

"And to think," my mom said when I had finished telling the story to my dad, "this could have all been avoided if you'd just put the key back." Thanks, Mother. I could have died.