Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Have a nice trip, see you next fall!
Side note before I begin: I am currently in the middle of Alexander McCall Smith's series "The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" with the main character being Mma. Precious Ramotswe, the owner of the detective agency. Precious is a lot like me, including being a "traditional built" woman.
Now for the trip...
I made the most amazing oatmeal chocolate chip walnut coconut cookies Sunday afternoon (hence I am a "traditional built" woman) and delivered three fresh cookies to my sweet hubby who had gotten out of his sick bed to enter some family history into the computer (upstairs). He was indeed grateful, being a traditional built man.
Oh, another side note: the light bulb in the downstairs hall is out. Gotta replace that. (Done now)
On the way back down the stairs, in the semi darkness, I don't notice the black shoes I had previously placed there to take upstairs on the next trip...
I step on the black shoe, that now slides out from under my foot and heads down the stairs. Only my foot is attached in some strange way to the shoe, and heads down the stairs with it. With me following. In a rapid uncomfortable unnatural way.
No worries. I am under control. I can stop this rapid descent. After all, I am on the fifth step, and if I go down I will be dead at the bottom. So I do all in my power to regain my footing, and I am successful...for another step or two.
Then momentum and my traditional build take over, and I am going down, down, down. My life flashes before my eyes. I realize this isn't good. My feet are now useless appendages, and they are in no way attached to the stairs. Nothing is. I am in flight.
The scream alerts hubby who yells "are you all right?" (most frantically) and then rushes to the stairs.
By this time I have hit, all of me, and I am sprawled in the downstairs hall on the floor. No attempts to pick myself up, but I am pretty sure nothing is broken. Except I can't really breathe.
Then I look up. And frantic hubby of traditional build is headed down the stairs. And...
remember that black shoe?
He hits the shoe, and again, my life flashes before my eyes. Because if MY fall doesn't kill me, surely when he lands on top of me, it's over.
With the grace and agility of a ballerina/hockey player, he successfully regains his footing, and spares me a trip to the ER...or the morgue.
That was a close call.