I tell people that it was revolutionary squirrels that broke my arm. I spin a funny story, me at my front door, fending them off with a pair of knitting needles and a scarf, waving my knitting around like a bull fighter. The story is funny. People are laughing.
It sounds better than it really was. What it really was was not so much stupid as stale and stupidly pedestrian. It was nothing more than the sort of thing I have been doing for thirty odd years.
I look back at it, and it’s cringe worthy. You can see exactly how it added up. I was running late because my conference call ran late. The conference call I took, even though I was on vacation. The conference call I accepted, even though I looked at the time and thought “that’s going to be close”.
The call ran late, and Mr. Spit was standing at my office door, telling me we had to leave. We got in the car and I realized that I had to return the chairs we borrowed last night, if I was going to put the top down on the car. I had promised our friends a tour around the yarn stores, with the top down.
It was running up the sidewalk to return the chairs that I tripped. I didn’t even see the stair.
It was a long thirty seconds, laying face down on the concrete. I had time to think. It was the moment when you realize that this is going to hurt. It just hasn’t started yet.
And what I thought in those thirty seconds was: still.
After 34 years old, I am still doing this to myself. I am still a klutz. I am still doing this.
I’m afraid I don’t know what else to say. I do this. I do this to myself. I over promise and find myself scrambling so that I don’t under deliver.
Which ends, face down on the concrete, thinking “Still . . . ”
I’ve been doing this for all of my life. Running late, being disorganized, rushing.