I fell down the steps of the museum—in front of 15-20 middle school girls who were on a field trip. While I can’t be sure what they were saying, because they had their hands over their mouths, I am certain I heard numerous giggles as they pointed my direction. It wasn’t icy, or wet, or dark. It was broad daylight.
No one pushed me, pulled me, or distracted me.
I had no excuse for falling down the steps. I just did.
I performed a series of end-over-ends until I reached the bottom step and landed in an ungraceful heap, all for no apparent reason. There was nothing to do but pick up the book my brother had just given me, stand up smiling sheepishly, and say, “Bad shoes! Bad, bad shoes!”
I looked quickly to see if I recognized any of the kids in the group, not knowing what I would do if I did, and headed for the parking lot along a flat—very flat—sidewalk. I didn’t hear any clanking sounds as I walked, so I assumed all critical functions were stable, although my hands were complaining vociferously about the beating they took to catch my body.
They had been occupied carrying the car keys and the new book my brother had given me and had no plans for breaking my body’s precipitous and rapid heap-style landing, but they did it anyway, and had the bloody abrasions to show for it. While my hands hurt like the dickens, they and I both were glad it was them and not my face.
More on that…next