I fall down a lot.
It was funny, possibly even endearing, when I was five, but it’s kind of lame and a little sad now. My list of injuries is as long as the number of ace bandages I’ve been given at the emergency room. That’s a lot, bitches. My latest fall-down-go-boom moment was in February, when I fell backwards on a patch of ice in front of my daycare provider’s house and knocked myself out for about five minutes. Waking up with a wet ass and frozen hands, blinking at a double image of the oak tree above my head reminded me that I should have worn the damn snow boots I’d bought the week before. They are still sitting in my closet, natch.
The winter before that, I took a slide down my icy front stairs and won a brace for my wrist and a rainbow of bruises on my hip. I’ve also had plenty of injuries that don’t involve ice. Sidewalks jump up and bite and my hips regularly encounter the dining room table, the kitchen counter and even doorways. Maybe it’s the universe telling me my hips are too big.
In 2005, I dropped my motorcycle on my foot in my front yard and broke all my toes. Why does someone who falls down a lot have a motorcycle? The answer to that is a whole different blog entry.
The other day I was at the ear, nose and throat doctor and he asked me if I ever felt unbalanced or fell down. I burst into a fit of giggles. “My mom’s nickname for me was ‘klutz’,” I said. It turns out that my repeated ear infections might be the source of my nickname. I’ll be damned…I might not be a huge spaz after all! This could be fixable! My best friend might be disappointed….she wouldn’t be able to start each phone conversation with, “So, what did you injure this week?” She loves to tease me about my frequent flyer pass to the emergency room, but I counter by reminding her that she was the drunk dumbass who once fell down while standing at a counter ordering a burrito. Spazzes attract one another, you know.