I took a good hard fall Friday night. What? No, there wasn’t drinking involved! Why would you even say that?
Oh. Yeah, well. Good point.
But no. Drinking was not involved. It was a clean fall, a perfectly reasonable fall that included a sloping sidewalk, an armful of recyclables, and a child’s bicycle that had not been there just 10 minutes before.
Knees. Palms. Ribs. Wrists. ELBOW.
When given the option of not charging briskly into a prone bicycle, my advice is to take it.
Since then, of course, I’ve been listening to my body complain: an exclamation from my back, a shout from wrist. Even my eardrums, afraid of being left out, have hollered once or twice. I’ve begun imagining myself as a skeleton, clacking and jiving down the mean streets of Minneapolis. There may be a jaunty hat involved, something I tip at all the other skeletons. I’ve got an index finger in the air, wagging it to an imaginary beat. Howdy-howdy, what’s buzzin’, cousin?
Not sure why, but my skeleton sounds like she’s from the 40s, a wise-crackin’ skeleton, see? A killer-diller dame with moxie.
From one set of bones to another, Happy Monday.