If falling down was an Olympic sport, I would surely be a gold medalist.
I’m wearing my medal today. It’s a giant bruise surrounded by nasty swelling. Yes, I’ve fallen and I couldn’t get up. Worse than that…I fell in a crowded barbeque joint in a low cut halter. I can’t even be bothered with wondering how bad or how long the exposure might have been when my cleavage was on display. For the first time in ages, I was unable to laugh at my situation, and only because I was straining not to cry. This time when I hit the ground, I hit it hard, and man, did it hurt.
Of course, people rushed to my aid. My husband was sitting on the patio outside, and a restaurant patron had to go flag him to scrape his “lady friend” from the floor. I would choose that day to leave my wedding rings at home. I was demoted to lady friend, without evidence of being married. It’s amazing how observant the male species is when it comes to things like that. But lady friend, wife, whatever I happened to be at the moment, my husband still came running and pulled me to my feet gallantly while I whimpered and tried to maintain my typical smartass attitude about falling down.
When asked if I was ok, I answered, “I will be, eventually.” But no one laughed. Still, my husband felt the need to tell the entire place that I did that all the time. “Oh, no worries, she does this all the time.” Because, let’s face it. I’m Olympic class when it comes to falling. And I do it so well, I’ve never even broken a bone.
Yeah, that’s skill.
Until the next time…I’ll be buried in ice.