It's no secret that I am accident prone. Some would call me a klutz, but I prefer "gracefully challenged." As Mr. Pitt on Seinfeld said, "You can't have some grace; you either have grace or you don't." I don't.
Prior to moving to the frozen tundra of northern PA, my biggest challenges were things like curling irons, hot stoves, curbs, corners, and furniture. All of which may sound pretty innocuous to you, but trust me, with depth perception like mine, they are perilous indeed.
Now that I live in Siberia, my well-being faces a new threat on a daily basis: ice.
Oh sure, all that snow looks pretty and fluffy. And it is. It's what lurks underneath that causes me lacerations and abrasions and contusions.
A few weeks ago we managed an unprecedented-in-January four straight days without snow. This was a welcome occurrence but would have been even more so if it had been ice-free as well. As it was, the kids decided having an ice skating rink for a back yard was awesome. That's because they were not the ones who had to take the dog out. Thrice in one day I was pulled off my feet and left with bruises on knees, hips, and buttocks. Mine, not Shadow's.
Then came Saturday when I decided to brush some snow off of a cooler I was putting in the van. At least it looked like snow. Upon forcefully swiping my hand across it, I discovered it was actually ice. One large finger laceration later, I will not make this mistake again.
Tenacity is one of my strong suits, so despite a brief consideration of hiding in my bedroom until June, I've continued to venture out into this treacherous world of mine.
At least until yesterday. Here's what happened:
The setting: the church parking lot
The time: 11:10 am
The characters: trust me, I'm the only one necessary
As I was rushing to exit the van because I was running late for church, I stepped quickly out of the driver's door. My first foot hit the unseen ice right outside my door, and before I could stop myself, it came right out from under me as the other leg floundered uselessly beside it. I landed on my hip, which managed to slow my fall but not stop it entirely. Once my hip slid out from under me, my upper half continued down, down, down until it was brought to a halt by the van. I managed to smack the side of my head on the bottom of the doorframe - the place where you step into the van. As if a battered hip and a headache were not enough, I lifted my head to discover that my ear was bleeding because I had somehow managed to fall in such a way that I smacked my ear on the edge of the van.
Who manages this type of trauma in a 2.5 second period?
Me, that's whom. Which is why if you're looking for me before summer, you'll find me in my house. Behind the couch. With cushions barricading me on every side.