Monday, January 27, 2014

Just Hang a Caution Sign Around my Neck

You may not know this, but I'm a dancer. Yessiree. I took classical ballet for many years when I was young . . . performed in “The Nutcracker” seven times, among other things, and on pointe, no less. I took dance as an adult in Hutchinson and in Sioux City, adding to my ballet repertoire some tap, jazz, modern . . . graceful as a swan, I am.

Which makes the last few days that much more aggravating.

I injured myself walking into my closet Saturday. I'm not even sure exactly how. I was looking in the bathroom mirror at something and walking toward the closet door; when I got close enough to go through the doorway, I turned my head toward where I was going and ended up whacking the left side of my body on the doorframe. My left hand was raised, for some reason, and so the edge of the door frame hit squarely on the back of my hand, leaving a good bruise. Seriously. I walked into a door frame.

But that's nothing on my earlier stunt. My youngest and the new dog were in the kitchen with me where I was getting some stuff done before lunch. I turned around, and there was the dog at my feet . . . only I didn't see him. I felt him, the fulcrum over which my body tipped as I face-planted on the tile of my kitchen floor. My knee whacked the floor good, and I had to sit with a bag of frozen broccoli on it for a while. No internal injury there, I don't believe, but it's darn painful, and it's gonna look good and ugly for a few weeks, I expect.

And no, the dog was not injured. Thanks for asking.

But even that has nothing on my stunt a couple days before that. I was bringing down the dog's crate from my youngest's bedroom where he has been sleeping (and sleeping well now – again, thanks for asking). Our stairway has a curve to it, and I was carefully manuevering so as to not bump the corners of the crate on the wall.

“Do you need help, Mom?” the daughter asked.

“No, I've got it – thanks,” I replied. Because I did.

Until my foot missed the edge of a step and I went sliding. Or actually, kind of lurching. I sort of fell forward onto the top of the crate – the bottom of which was on my foot (yeah, I'm not sure how that worked either) and the corner of which, or course, went right through the stairway wall I had been so deftly avoiding just seconds before.

Both girls came running, of course. They took the crate, bemoaned the gash in the wall, and worried over me appropriately, asking if I was okay. Yes, I'm fine, I told them. I just need to sit a minute.

I think I passed out. For real. The next thing I remember was my brain feeling like it was swimming and having no idea where I was or what was going on and feeling rather panicky. Seriously, folks – I fell on the stairs, didn't even hurt myself enough to bruise or anything (although I was a little achey for the morning), but I passed out? What's the physiological mechanism behind that?

But yeah – I'm a ballerina. Graceful as a swan when I dance. Just don't stand too close to me when I try to WALK.