Twice in the last month, I have fallen down hard in my apartment, not on my pillowy behind but forward and with little help from my hands. The first time, I was napping when the doorbell rang, and I ran from the bedroom through the kitchen, which is often blocked now by a dog gate that keeps our dog from eating anything he can reach in the kitchen (ranging from tuna steaks to empty popcorn boxes) which I often simply step over rather than open and move out of the way, because, you know, that might take up to a full minute. On this occasion, with my left leg already over the gate, I knocked the gate down with my right, landing on it on my shin, with, as I mentioned, no hands involved.
It hurt like a bitch, and I got a bruise from my knee almost to my ankle that’s still there.
This weekend, Ben and I were watching The Wire in bed, and I took a pause to go brush my teeth, but came in from the bathroom while I was still brushing my teeth because, you know, that takes a full minute or two, and it gets boring, so I went back into the bedroom to watch a little more Wire and on the way back to the bathroom, my stretched out pajama bottoms caught on the edge of the heater and rrrrrip and down I went again, this time landing on my left knee, thankfully with a little bit of left hand involved, the right, unfortunately, tied up with my toothbrush. The injury wasn’t quite as severe this time, but it still hurt, so I started laughing and moaning with my mouthful of foamy toothpaste, Ben comes over cracking up, and I’m pointing to my mouth so he brings me a cup to spit into before I get up.
There’s nothing to be learned here.