Eating Pavement

When someone talks about falling on his or her face, you pretty much assume the talk is figurative.

But not me. I’m the kind of girl that likes to do things literally. At least, that’s apparently the mandate in my recurring role as Court Jester for the Cosmos.

In this latest installment of the ongoing comedy that is my life, I was at my friend’s house last night for a clothing swap, among the last of the stragglers preparing to leave.

We were out on her front porch when her sister spotted the bus and caught my attention.

She took off down the steps and ran up to the intersection. I tried to follow suit with my huge backpack.

I cleared the stairs, but missed the small step separating my friend’s property and the sidewalk.

I don’t really remember what happened next. It was like one minute I was moving; the next, I was prone on the sidewalk.

I kind of remember the sound of scuffing – like the type of sound someone might make if they were dragging a canvas bag along the sidewalk.

Only it was my face.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” I heard a couple of people say. A couple of the women came to my side.

I don’t remember in which order, but I remember checking my glasses, and then my teeth.

And then I just remember being helped up, and me saying, “I’m okay, I’m okay.” And then seeing my friend’s sister waiting by the bus, its ultra-white lights glaring, I got up and loped towards – and onto – the bus.

In hindsight, maybe I should have taken a couple of minutes, dusted myself off and then wait, lady-like, for the next bus. But nope – no lady here. I guess I was in shock – or maybe I thought I didn’t fall as badly as I did. I know on the ride to the station, I was kind of embarrassed.

As of this morning, I am the recipient of a pavement-burned left shoulder, sore wrist, bruised forehead, bruised nose, slightly skinned philtrum, three bruised knuckles, and a slightly bruised ego. Everything still stings.

I sort of look like the loser in a parking lot fight, in which I’ve been grazed in the face lengthwise with a brass knuckle. It’s really quite attractive.

(At least I can now knock that off the List of Embarrassing Moments Before Age 35, right below “accidentally shitting my pants”.)

So if you decide to get me a face-guard for Christmas this year, I won’t be offended. At the rate I’m going, it may come in handy.

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