The graphic to the left perfectly describes how I was visualizing the worst case scenario in the laundry room. Allow me to explain. The new, fancy washing machine is 38" in height. Perfectly coinciding with the height of my bottom rib. Which means I have to tippy-toe a bit to remove the freshly laundered items from the cavernous depths of the machine. I have to seriously tippy-toe to retrieve the items from the very back of the machine. Which means that Reid could possibly find me flailing with my legs up in the air if I ever pass that unbalanced point from which* there is no return. No wonder the home is the most hazardous place to be.
*You have no idea how hard it was for me to resist using the homophone "witch".