Internet, I have a favor to ask of you. A weird one. Can you all start hoping I’ll have some sort of minor fall in the next few days? Seriously.
See, I’ve fallen twice in the last few days.Which in my life is always bad news.
The first was a pool-emptying mishap. While trying to dump the algae-decorated water out of Tori’s pool (along with the hundreds of tadpoles that were calling it home), I over balanced, windmilling backwards over the patio umbrella that had been shading it. I landed flat on my back, legs up in the air. And as I did, my skirt flew up, exposing my faded granny panties to the world.
But, fortunately, other than a few bruises (and my wounded pride), I escaped that one without harm.
Then, this afternoon, I fell again. This time over…a dog bone? A stray piece of chalk? Misplaced air? I don’t know. All I know is one minute I was standing upright, striding toward the driveway, and the next I was flying headfirst toward the ground.
The impact rocked my whole body, and for a moment, I thought I had dislocated my shoulder or something. But no. Other than a wrenched back and a sore arm, I seem to be okay (we’ll see what bruises pop up tomorrow).
In other words, I’m experiencing a klutzy streak. And generally speaking, these things come in threes (trust me, I have a history of falling. spectacularly). So, I need to get that last fall out of my system and I’ll be home-free!
It’s got to happen before I go to New York City. Otherwise, who knows what could happen.
I could fall down a flight of subway stairs.
Step out in front of a racing cyclist in Central Park.
Fall off a curb into rush hour traffic.
Trip over a pigeon and break my nose.
Run into a fellow BlogHer, dump my hot coffee down my shirt and end up with third degree burns on my boobs.
You laugh, but trust me, it could happen.
Because I have fallen down a flight of stairs and broken my knee. Tripped over dogs and sprained an ankle. Stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and broken an elbow.
Do you see the pattern here? When in the midst of a klutzy spell, I am dangerous. Even my dog knows it. He? Automatically ducks when he sees me losing my balance. It’s like a Pavlovian response.
My husband jokes I need a tripod. Or a walker. Or a Segue (but I’m sure I’d find a way to kill myself with one of those).
My coworkers just joke. Endlessly.
So start hoping I stumble over my cat while walking to the bathroom. Or run into the foosball table at work. Or, best of all, trip over the dirty clothes on my bedroom floor and fall into bed. Just somewhere I’m guaranteed a soft landing.
Because if I don’t? You should all steer clear of me next week. I have been known to bring others down with me. Just ask Tori.
By the way, if you could start asking the universe to send a little grace her way, we’d all appreciate it. We don’t need two of us tripping over air in this household…