Somewhere on the interwebs, there’s a statistic about the likelihood of incurring an injury more frequently in the home than anywhere else. Yesterday morning, I became such a statistic. I had successfully navigated the un-treated sidewalks while walking around in the snow the day before, mind you, but the two measly steps down to my living room proved too much for me. I took one step in my 3-sock-layered feet, slipped spectacularly, and landed on my butt on the edge of the middle step. Of course, I had too much momentum from the stumble to stay where I landed, so I was propelled off the step and onto the floor, where I smacked my back off the edge of the step that had failed to hold my booty, and also somehow whacked my arm off something (the wall?) in the process.
Now, this episode immediately registered as funny to me. I sat on my rump in mild disbelief, trying to figure out how I’d gone from upright to ass-planted in a fraction of a second, and giggling a little bit to myself. I did a mental inventory of body parts to make sure everything felt OK, and aside from some spots in my butt, back, and arm that had gotten the brunt of the impact, everything seemed fine. I got up, turned around, and instinctively looked at the floor where I wound up to make sure it wasn’t broken.
No, really — I sincerely believed there was a possibility I could break my floor with the force of the fall of my body.
Which, right now, is funny and pretty ridiculous.
But also very sad.
When I had reached Onederland, those irrational, paranoid, fat-girl thoughts were far behind me. I knew I had backtracked severely away from Onederland, but realizing how far I have backtracked mentally hit me with the force of a thousand of my bodies crashing to the floor. THUD.
Well, I guess you know what they say: Fall 9 times, get up 10. So up I go. My mental state will recover.
Don’t worry — I didn’t break it.