I pretty much consider my week incomplete unless I’ve hurt myself in some way. And it’s funny! I laugh at my own clumsiness. My architect-inflicted but self-publicized nickname is Gazelles on Crack. In college, one of my fun naked friends called me Grace.
I actually answered to it, in fact.
However, sometimes even I’m embarrassed about my lack of ballerina-like grace. Actually, I would probably settle, on most days, for the grace & walking skills of a slower-than-average toddler.
One such day was last Thursday. I’d had a pretty good day. I’d gotten to have lunch with a friend, I’d gotten a present (yay!), and it was a beautiful day.
Then, it happened. I fell in a hole. Not a big hole. Not a “she was trapped in a well for three days, but Lassie found her” hole. Just a pot hole. And I wasn’t even wearing my sexy black high heels anymore. No, I was wearing my sensible sneakers that I wear to & from work to make it harder for me to fall in holes.
I did something bad to my back. At first, just my back hurt. So, I had a martini (like you wouldn’t have done the same). Then, the next day, I swore up & down that my leg was having an aneurysm (that’s a hard word), but it was just a pinched nerve or something, not a blood clot at all (probably, since I’m not dead yet). Then, the neck started hurting. There hasn’t been pain like that since the exciting car accident of ‘92 when the chiropractor looked at my x-rays and said to the impressionable 15 year old “holy shit, you are screwed up” (I forgave him, though, for he was the first cute man who ever asked me to take my pants off, and then blushed. He was a young chiropractor. Sigh…Dr. Rob.)
Now, I am just achy, but okay. I rode my bike to work on Monday, and jogged yesterday, so I know that I am okay. Also, I am now over my embarrassment enough to share with the internet that once again, gravity made me her bitch. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that “the incident with the hole” (as I am now fond of calling it) pretty much took care of any falling down that I deserved this week.
I’ve only known one person who had more concussions than me by the time we graduated from high school. Now he actually has permanent memory loss due to an accident where he fell off a ladder and something heavy fell on his head. (actually, funny side story: that guy was my first boyfriend when I was eight. We used to play kissing games. Then, I moved away & we didn’t keep in touch, not that we really expected to. But, I ran into him a few times in college, because he had friends who were friends of people who were friends with some friends of mine…you know how it is in college. And once, at a music festival, we hooked up. It was kinda hot, except we both kept giggling. ‘cause we weren’t 8 anymore, but kept thinking of the funny things we’d done when we were 8. Now, he doesn’t even remember me as an adult, only as a small child. So, the end of the story wasn’t really that funny.)
Ummm…I think the moral of that story was that soon, I will have brain damage & permanent memory loss & won’t know any of you if I’m not more careful. I think I might start wearing a helmet everywhere. For safety.
I just realized that I managed to refer to three separate sex-buddies in one entry. I am a such a slut. Or, as a friend of mine so eloquently put it, a sklutz, which is gazelles on crack backwards (or it should be, anyway).