The last thing I heard before the fall?
Classical music.
The last thing I thought before the fall?
I should jog to classical music more often.
The sound I made to the strains of Bach as I smashed, palms first, knees second, into the sidewalk?
Uuhhfffff. Oh fuck.
The number of seconds it took me to understand what had just happened?
Three.
The thought I had after realizing what had just happened?
Geezus. I hope no one saw that.
The thought that went through my head when I peeled back my jogging pants to check for injuries and saw my knee skin stuck to the inside of my pants?
Don'tthrowupdon'tthrowupdon'tthrowupohgoddon'tthrowup.
The likelihood, I thought, that my phone would turn back on after it hit the sidewalk and all but exploded?
Very small.
The relief I felt when it did turn on and I was able to dial Burdy and tell him I need you to pick me up. I fell and I'm hurt?
Huge.
The number of blocks I had to hop-step before Burdy found me in the dark?
One.
The number of times I said "FfffffffffffffffffffIt stings!" and AaaaaaaaghHurry up!" to Burdy while he pawed through the linen closet looking for Neosporin?
Entirely too many for a grown woman.
The number of minutes in the bathroom cleaning the wound before I fainted?
Roughly eleven.
The number of seconds I was out?
Roughly twenty.
The number of times I have ever tripped and fallen while jogging in my whole entire life?
Just this once.
The number of pieces my phone's screen is in after the fall?
A brazillion.
The sole reason I chose this phone over the others in this price range?
The FM radio receiver.
The reason I was scanning for something to listen to (which is how I found the classical station)?
Bad reception.
The idea that, because my phone normally gets excellent reception and because the only thing I could pick up last night was classical music, and because I got the distinct impression before I left the house that it was NOT a good idea to jogging at 9:30 at night, that some cosmic force had choreographed the whole thing?
Disturbing.
The amount of time I spent today marveling at the invention of Band-Aids (seriously. BAND-AIDS. THINK ABOUT IT)?
Quite a bit.
The amount of time I spend, when catastrophe strikes, thinking about all sorts of modern inventions I take for granted, like running water, and bathtubs, and gauze, and ice-packs, and television, and re-runs of Seinfeld?
Far too much.
The gratitude and awe I feel for people who have to deal with blood and skin and Band-Aids and gauze on a daily basis?
Immense.
What my dancin' buddy, Terri, said when she saw my bandaged knee underneath my rolled up workout pants at Zumba class tonight?
Did you get a boo-boo?
Number of minutes of class that went by before I remembered that my skin was missing from my knee-cap and I started to get woozy?
Forty seven.
Willingness to dismiss idea of cosmic choreography and accept the fact it was just a matter of my sneaker catching a piece of raised sidewalk in the dark?
Strong.
Determination to listen to inner-self when it says: Don't go jogging right now. Stay home and eat popcorn instead?
Renewed.
Comments
Lo-time spent reading this3 minutesRelative worth to my dayPriceless-John
pride goeth before the ass-busting.