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?


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?


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?


The number of blocks I had to hop-step before Burdy found me in the dark?


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?


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?


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?


Determination to listen to inner-self when it says: Don't go jogging right now. Stay home and eat popcorn instead?