Getting in touch with your inner klutz.
I am going to kill myself. And I swear on my mother's eyes, it won't be a suicide.
Possibly, I should backtrack.
For Christmas, Himself bought me a pair of fleece-lined bedroom slippers that are snuggly and comfortable and quite wonderful looking, as these things go - which says quite a lot because most slipper styles make me feel like the bride of Sasquatch.
I go through them at the rate of about four pairs a year, because of something called Morton's Neuroma. It's a condition that translates loosely as an enlarged nerve between the third and fourth toes that, if you step a certain way, misfires and causes you to shout "yeow!" in public places, thus attracting attention to yourself, except not in a good way, unless one is wearing ergonomically designed shoes that lessen the jolt.
I also tromp around the house in slippers that accommodate my wacky toes (on my left foot) on every day I'm not out in public and wearing shoes that are much cuter. Hence, the reason I go through so many.
These new house slippers are extremely well made, and have a bit of a lip, or fender, maybe, where the tops are stitched to the soles and are, possibly, going to be the cause of my yet-to-be-experienced death.
What happened was this: I was running late for a mammogram appointment, something no woman minds being late for, and was heading to my bathroom, which is just off our bedroom, to brush my teeth. On the floor of our bedroom is a 9-foot-by-12-foot sisal rug, and on top of that is a smaller kilim, thrown down at a jaunty angle and quite effective as a design statement.
Apparently, I am not picking my feet up high enough to accommodate the lip-fender on my new slippers, because I went flying like a defensive tackle when one of them caught the edge of the kilim.As we speak, I have sisal rug rash on my chin and one side of my nose. Both knees are the color of prunes and twice their usual circumference. My right arm is bruised from shoulder to elbow, and I will not be up for any games of touch football for at least another month."Anything to avoid a mammogram," you're thinking, but not so. I picked myself up (well, OK, so Himself picked me up), I brushed my teeth and took a pain reliever that I hoped would kick in before I got to the medical center, because my knees wouldn't bend and I was walking like Frankenstein - and my breasts had flattened like crepes.
I learned something from this I should pass on to any women readers out there: It helps to have something that hurts worse than having your breasts flattened like crepes, to take the edge off.
I guess what I'm fearing, here, is that I am getting clumsier by the day. And that is deflating, because when I was in junior high school, Roland Ferreira and I could dance like the best of them on Dick Clark's "American Bandstand," and now I can't maneuver across a room without nearly killing myself.
I was not prepared for this.
I'm OK with the toll gravity has taken on my body parts. No, really. And I have adjusted to waning eyesight, diminished hearing, a thicken-ing waist and even Morton's Neuroma.
And I have adjusted to the near-disappearance of eye-brows, a sagging butt and a turkey neck. And I have adjusted to less hair on my head and more on my chin. But I am not adjusting to clumsy.
"You need to do some exercises to help with your balance," Himself advised.
"Like standing on one foot while lifting the other," he said.
"I can't stand on two feet without taking a nosedive, buster, so we can rule that out," I informed. "I'm thinking more along the lines of plush, extra thick, wall-to-wall carpeting."
"And I'm thinking," Himself said, "what you probably need is a padded cell."
Lynne Horner is a free-lance writer who lives in Springfield. You can e-mail her at firstname.lastname@example.org.