Being as my father worked for the police department for 20-some years, it was not uncommon to have spare handcuffs around the house. As a kid, I used to love to "play" policeman. I'd handcuff everything. This was all well and good until I handcuffed my grandmother behind the stove. She had climbed back there to clean something and "snick" I handcuffed her to it. Needless to say, I was in no hurry to release her after she told me what she'd do to me once I had.
But I think the real low point with the handcuffs came on the day when I managed to handcuff my wrist to my ankle. (That's right, I did it! You want some of this?!) Anyway, I have no idea why I did it, but I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time. What made matters worse was that I had lost the key. Add to it that my father had the spare key, and he couldn't leave work. So, barring leaving me incapacitated for hours until he got home, he did the next best thing. He called the local police and asked them to send a squad car by the house.
Now, it wasn't my best moment to be laying on the floor by the front door, twisted like a pretzel, with my arm handcuffed to my ankle, in nothing but my underwear and no way to put clothes on (Oh, did I conveniently leave that part out?), and have the police show up to release me. They managed the rescue in seconds, but I'm sure the story lived on for years at the station. Maybe one of the officers will read this blog and have a good laugh recollecting the incident.
