Falling Down Is Not My New Thing, Even Though I Do It Sometimes

Okay look. I have a weird thing about making things happen when I write them. A sort of superstition, if you will, even though I'm not superstitious, which I decided a while back was actually a choice I could make, as I continued doing things like stepping over cracks, walking around ladders, avoiding black cats, knocking on wood and throwing salt over my shoulder, one day I thought, wait, I actually don't believe this will prevent and/or remedy any ill effects caused by running into these things, and so far so good, as I no longer worry about spilled salt in particular, which I do a lot because I like salt, a lot.
So it occurs to me that I could also decide not to have this other selfmade superstition about making bad things happen by writing about them, like family members getting sick or what have you.
The point today is, recalling the previous post about falling down being my new thing, is that it doesn't have to be my new thing, and so, just because I fell down a third of our front stairs yesterday for no good reason and now have a hideous bruise on my thigh which might be a really lovely shade of violet for let's say an evening gown but which on my thigh is well past unsightly not to mention sore, does not mean I have to continue falling down just because I said it was my new thing and therefore that concept is out in the world.
Because it's not enjoyable, really. And quite frankly, that thing about seeing your life flash before your eyes? Let me tell you what I saw, in one instant: I saw myself, at the bottom of the stairs, bent into unnatural positions, possibly never bending back into the original one.
And by the way? I don't even know how it happened. I didn't trip, I didn't stumble, I wasn't hurrying, I was standing up and then I was falling down for no apparent reason.
So falling down and or superstitions, known or selfmade, are officially my old thing. My new things include standing up and logic.

Falling Down is My New Thing

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.