Well, if he's going to tell people about it, I will too.

Who says I can’t go with the flow? Last night I hopped over the baby gate propped across the landing that separates the “t.v. room” from the rest of the house (because heaven forbid the foster dog has freedom to roam. And destroy), headed into the kitchen where I popped a few vitamins in my mouth, realized my water was still in the t.v. room, grabbed my book, zoomed back to the landing where the baby gate was lurking (and plotting), swung a leg over, swung the other leg nearly over, and promptly took a dive (and took the cursed baby gate with me. Take THAT, baby gate!). If you’ve never seen someone fail mightily at scissor kicking over a high jump pole, you will have no idea what this must have looked like to Monk. My curiosity as to how he must be processing the acrobatic entertainment took precedence over self-preservation, mostly.

I knew, as my shoe hit the gate (and the beer hit my bloodstream?)that I was going down with one free hand and nothing to grab, several vitamins in my mouth that I’d rather not choke on, a tongue I wished not to bite, and the good fortune of carpet to maybe cushion my fall. There was that very sharp moment of clarity in which I knew there would be one definite outcome, and two options that wouldn’t change the unfortunate result: I could flail madly, throwing the book to the side and attempt to get a ridiculous hop going, long enough to send me crashing into the entertainment center, or I could just go with it. I’m sure Monk saw the entire thought process play across my face, down to the resigned but very zen moment of “oh, fuck it.”

Despite the fearful realization that I narrowly missed puncturing the back of my skull on the corner of the dog crate, and waking up this morning with an aching neck (no doubt from locking my jaw to hold the vitamin stash steady and still, just like the way the beloved Irish Setter from my childhood once carried a terrified slew of baby rabbits in her mouth, now that I think of it) plus a tender rib and sore lower back, I am most concerned that I have scarred Monk for life.

Witnessing my slow Matrix-esque (sans fancy cartwheel move, guns and black trench of course) sideways tumble into the t.v. room last night has made a huge impact already. Instead of laughing at the clown he married (indeed, the whole way down I was waiting and watching for the Mirth That Never Came), he went on and on (and on!) about how disturbing the whole situation was, and later fell asleep and dreamt falling-themed dreams all night. I guess the whole production has startled something loose in him. I’m not sure how I can ease his traumatized subconscious now, since I thought he understood from the beginning that “klutz” should be a blinking neon sign attached to my forehead forever and always, but I’ll try to think of something to smooth his brow and erase this disturbance from his psyche.

Maybe I should fart in front of him.

1 comment:

Blogger Lisa said...

Yikes. I am a serious klutz too. I'm surprised that hasn't happened to me.

Thanks for posting a comment on my entry. On the skiing thing --I think we are going to Steamboat springs in Colorado. There's a place called Hidden Valley around here that makes its own snow but its been too warm and from what I hear is a joke of a place to ski anyway.

The first time I skiied, my hubby tried to show me. I broke my tailbone. Didn't even know that until about a year later when I needed an xray for back problems. Go figure. eh? But the next year I went back, got lessons and enjoyed it. This year, I plan to get another lesson.

5:49 PM  

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