It was the weekend. I had just finished a long overdue blog post and I felt pleasantly full, like I'd just had fresh brewed coffee with a dollop of ice cream in it. Maybe I did. I was ready to go counter my fatty indulgence with a hike with my furry loved ones. I can see it so painfully slow now, as I traversed the porch, my high pitched conversation with my kitties turned down to a deep, low, slow-motion drawl. Each step minutes long before my foot rests and my weight shifts, the other foot taking its steady turn at brief flight before connecting with the ground and accepting it's turn at the burden of weight bearing, the cycle beginning anew.
Okay, I'm just kidding. It actually happened so fast that all I remember was being at the top of the stairs one second, and flat on my back at the bottom of them the next. Speaking of bottom, boy did mine hurt. It hurt more than my arm at that point, though not as much as my ego. Luckily my flaming blush was witnessed only by cats who, let's admit, always think we're doing weird things anyway and aren't going to do more than cock their head sideways at you when you make a fallen spectacle of yourself. I disentangled my arm from the railing, the railing that certainly didn't stop my fall but, come to think of it, maybe did save my skull by grabbing my arm and keeping my head up just enough to not crack it a good one.
I got up as quick as I could, adrenaline jackhammering in my ears, and did a body check. Nothing seemed broken. Maybe the blush regulator, I think that was stuck in overdrive. I felt sore and silly, which is always surviveable. However, as the night wore on, I started to feel like I'd been in a car wreck. I hope you have never been in one, but if you have you know it's always worse the next day. And indeed, lo and behold, I couldnt even move my arm next morning. Well, I COULD. But I think if you're crying when you're trying to wash your hair, umm- don't wash your hair.
In fact, don't go to work right? Wrong. It's a mix of boss fear and "weakness" guilt that makes me hate to call in sick, so I had my Honey braid my hair for me (he did a better job than I do, too!) and even tie my shoes for me. Yes, somehow I thought once the 4 ibuprofin kicked in, I'd be able to power out a work day. At a job where I use my arms the ENTIRE eight hours. Lifting things. Dumbass. What exactly would it take? And more importantly, how could I resign AND call in sick? Off to work I went.
Oh yes, see, the mushrooms are illustrating how damp it is here.
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