Recently, I made a trip downtown to the courthouse. I needed a copy of a document and that’s where they keep them. I parked my car on the street, fed the meter, started walking and caught my toe on something. On what??? Who knows.
After a pause just long enough for me to think “Uh-oh!” I could feel myself plunging to the ground like a big sack of grain or potatoes or anything that’s bagged and heavy and toss-able by someone assisting in the farm to grocery food chain. I nose dived into the concrete sidewalk, my right knee and glasses bearing the brunt of the collision.
It happened so fast and I was so stunned and embarassed I just lay there face down for what seemed an eternity, but was probably just seconds. Then I rolled over, sat up and rose to my feet.
I limped into the courthouse because my knee was throbbing and though I couldn’t see it, it felt like it was skinned, swelling and turning black and blue. Thank God I was wearing my favorite black NYDJ leggings that are so thick and spandex-y that they’re almost a sports bandage!
I stopped in the courthouse bathroom to cleanse my face of invisible crud because God only knows who had walked or spit or pooped (don’t get upset, I’m talking about dogs) in that exact spot! I didn’t see any visible blood, but couldn’t bring myself to peel away the spandex and look at my knee.
Being a storyteller, I told my fall story to first cute, young, sympathetic looking guy I saw.
“Was anyone there to help you up?” he asked with sincere and empathetic concern. But his words made me wonder, “Do I look like I’m so old I can’t get off the ground by myself???” I felt my badly bruised ego might bleed.
“No,” I said. “I can get off the ground by myself.”
Telling a story about falling when you’re 60+ might not be the best move. From TV ads I think old people must fall a lot. But I’m not old. I’m a sexy-generian just entering a paling twilight with stars twinkling above. Seeing stars??? I must be slightly dizzy. I grab the nearest chair.
After a week of ice packs and aspirin, my knee’s scabs, bruises and pain are almost gone. But my three-year-old Prada glasses aren’t as lucky. The scratches on the right lens can’t be buffed away as I hoped. “You’re due for an update anyway,” the woman says. “It’ll take years off you.”
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