Yes, like Britney Spears, I did it again. I fell from grace. Oops.
Seconds before I had skipped as happy as a cloud across the garage floor and leapt into the air like a gazelle. The plan was to land on some spilled dried macaroni pasta and make a deliciously satisfying crunch.
I jumped and my happy thoughts and pixie dust saw my feet rising of the floor, past my head and up into the sky. There was a moment when airbourne, that I thought I was flying.
And then I realised the opposite was true and in fact I wasn’t.
That’s when the pixie dust failed.
My initial landing would have won me 10 points on the gymnastic mat. It was the weight of my ego-inflated noggin that did me in.
Gravity is not something to be denied by a mere mortal such as I. My head hit the immovable force that is the planet Earth.
Tweety birds and sarcastic Tinkerbells flew around my eyes in dizzying circles.
Then I heard the laughing. The guffawing. The snickering.
After ensuring I was in fact still alive, my son and spouse were doubled over weeping.
I think in future I shall buy bubble-wrap and jump on it in private.
“My mistress, when she walks, treads upon the ground.” – Shakespeare, Sonnet 130
I don’t so much ‘tread’ as trip over my own feet.
Yes, once more I have managed to fall head over heels not in love, but in sheer, unadulterated clumsiness.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think I were pregnant.
Don’t laugh, I knew I was pregnant with my daughter when I flung, in slow motion, a glass of orange juice over a client.
This time I know better. It’s the third fall in three months.
After 10 years of bliss, the next vertebrae in my spine is crumbling into dust trapping my sciatic nerve. Don’t feel stupid if you don’t know what this nerve is, I didn’t either until the first time this happened.
Basically, my left leg is numb. So, I don’t always feel the ground quite as intimately as I should. I can hop on coals in other words and not feel a spark.
This time my epic, not quite as graceful as a swan dive, ended up with me looking like I did a round with Mike Tyson, limping like Hop-along Cassidy (again) and with concussion.
I balanced like a ballerina en pointe as I gracefully placed my son’s boat into the crystal, cold water of Victoria Lake.
I sprung as graceful as a gazelle and then didn’t. I managed to land half in and half out of the water.
Hit my head on the only concrete block along an expanse of soft mud.
Snap my glasses in two.
Split my lip.
Bleed like a stuck pig.
Bruise every point of my body.
Rend into shattered rags the fragile cloth of dignity.
And when does this all happen?
When I’m about to jump on a plane and head to the bloody beach.