It was an immediate face smash on a polished floor

By Sherri Coner-Eastburn

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I’m a sprinter. I have never learned to mosey.

That’s why I’ve had several traffic tickets in my lifetime, for speeding and rolling through stop signs.
I hustle through life like my hair is on fire.

And so, that is likely the reason why I didn’t see the slight little dip beside the door yesterday while I hurried once again, instead of simply walking.

With my arms full of stuff, I grabbed that door and swung it open like I was running from a monster.

Of course, I tripped on the dip and then I immediately went down.

It felt like I fell for about 12 minutes.

But actually, it was an immediate face smash on a polished wood floor.

On my left cheek and shoulder, I skidded across the floor, reminded of my son’s Little
League moments as he raced to third base.

When I finally came to a stop, halfway under a table, my breath escaped me. I was gasping, staring at the ceiling.

And I was thankful that no one else was in the room.

“Maybe I’ll just lie here for a moment to assess my injuries,” I whispered.

There was a possibility that I chipped a bone in my shoulder. Maybe I broke my left hip, since it was now beginning to throb.

If an ambulance was summoned, however, people would know that I have not shaved my legs for at least two weeks. I haven’t slathered my heels with lotion, so they are dry and lethal. I wasn’t wearing pretty panties. And my socks didn’t match.

“Not good,” I muttered under my breath. “I have no other choice but to avoid any type of emergency care.”

I started to wonder if I should maybe start wearing a helmet. Just a few months ago, I fell through a porch. And a few days ago, I ran into the kitchen wall at home.

Finally, I managed to sit up. I then noted that my left knee was also screaming from the impact.
When I stood, I realized the left knee of my sweat pants was ripped.

But that was OK; at least I was still in one piece with all appendages attached.

Today is day three since my fall from grace.

I stuck medicated patches on the hot spots of my injuries. Under my clothing, I look like I’ve been in a knife fight.

The Ben-Gay scent brings tears to my eyes. And I can’t turn my head since my neck and left shoulder are so stiff and sore. I’m walking around like a zombie.

And I’m realizing that taking a fall at my age (on the fringe on 50), I no longer bounce.

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