-
me: we need to work on our method
for getting our cars to start.
anne: (puts both hands on dash) start, car!
staaaaaaaaaaart! c'mon baby!
(silence)
me: no, i meant, like...learn how to use a jump.
anne: oh. you meant...right.
-
-
A few months ago, I fell down a flight of stairs. At times like those, it's handy to still have bouncy little-kid bones, because when I am sixty-four after an experience like that I will likely not leap up, yank my dress back down, and shout, Augh! I am, like, sooo embarrassed!
-
Like with all disasters, at the time I was talking on my cell phone, gesticulating a lot, looking over my shoulder. When I extended my foot I was so sure that there was something underneath it that I put all my weight there without looking, twenty-two years on a surface that existed only in my mind.
--
When I started to fall, the instinct I'm always ignoring took over. My phone hit the ground and my arms flew to my head as I twisted into the air, my body already taking the situation in stride while my brain stammered, Wait, but I thought...?
-
And I was utterly falling, flailing limbs, spitting hair. My friend's house is old and beautiful, and that narrow, polite stairway could not contain my disasters. A shoulder almost knocked off the molding. My thigh hooked around the banister and thought seriously about taking it down with me. I actually left a footprint on the wall.
-
I hit the floor, stunned, and almost immediately rolled over and leapt to my feet. Get up, there may be more, barked my panicked brain, but there was no space left to fall into.
-
I eventually lived down all the StairMaster jokes. But for some reason, that landing still haunts me. It comes back sometimes when I'm standing still, that feeling like the earth under me has been sucked away. I teeter on my heels, and absently think about the faint imprint of my foot on the wall, angled towards the ceiling. Walking into nowhere.
A few months ago, I fell down a flight of stairs. At times like those, it's handy to still have bouncy little-kid bones, because when I am sixty-four after an experience like that I will likely not leap up, yank my dress back down, and shout, Augh! I am, like, sooo embarrassed!
-
Like with all disasters, at the time I was talking on my cell phone, gesticulating a lot, looking over my shoulder. When I extended my foot I was so sure that there was something underneath it that I put all my weight there without looking, twenty-two years on a surface that existed only in my mind.
--
When I started to fall, the instinct I'm always ignoring took over. My phone hit the ground and my arms flew to my head as I twisted into the air, my body already taking the situation in stride while my brain stammered, Wait, but I thought...?
-
And I was utterly falling, flailing limbs, spitting hair. My friend's house is old and beautiful, and that narrow, polite stairway could not contain my disasters. A shoulder almost knocked off the molding. My thigh hooked around the banister and thought seriously about taking it down with me. I actually left a footprint on the wall.
-
I hit the floor, stunned, and almost immediately rolled over and leapt to my feet. Get up, there may be more, barked my panicked brain, but there was no space left to fall into.
-
I eventually lived down all the StairMaster jokes. But for some reason, that landing still haunts me. It comes back sometimes when I'm standing still, that feeling like the earth under me has been sucked away. I teeter on my heels, and absently think about the faint imprint of my foot on the wall, angled towards the ceiling. Walking into nowhere.
