Confessions of a clumsy child....

Life can go your way
Or it can go to hell
Too soon to say
Can't seem to tell
In a stagnant state
Trouble finds me
I'm making my move
There's no time to lose

You gotta fight
Keep up the pace
Stand tall, even when you trip and fall
Keep up the pace
Stand tall, even when you trip and fall

Stuck in a bind
Principles in question
I stick my neck out
This fight I'll choose
A punch in the side
A blow to my pride
Kicked to the ground
Gotta pick myself up

You gotta fight
Keep up the pace
Stand tall, even when you trip and fall
Keep up the pace
Stand tall, even when you trip and fall

A little roughed up
But back on my feet
A bump in the road
But I'm still running
As Uncle Nemo said
"In life there's certain death"
No time for that
Gotta keep with the pack

Trip and Fall - the Planet Smashers

I was on my way out the door, or was trying hard to be at the point where I was almost out the door. Which really means I was at home, with a half hour to kill and perhaps the prospect of being early. I’d changed my clothes and was searching for an ellusive black top which I remembered to have hung on the balcony, where it was keeping my running clothes company and hopefully benefitting from some fresh air. My plan was to pack my running gear and an eggplant (no relationship) and head off to Boyfriend’s for dinner.

Being the particularly graceful person that I am—a fact supported both by eyewitness reports of spectacularly ungraceful and sadisically hilarious occurences as well as by the scars on my legs—I managed to have a minor disagreement with the stoop, with the metal bottom edge of the door. The stoop and I exchanged blows and heated words, with which I actually would have been satisfied, except for the part where my foot was starting to bleed. Fuck.

I hiked up my skirt and hopped to the bathroom, hoping to douse my damaged dignity as well as my foot. I assessed the situation with some measure of morbid curiosity. After my difference of opinion with the door a patch of skin the size of a dime decided to remain with the door out of solidariy, leaving me somewhat disadvantaged in the walking departmet. As much as I respect anyone’s right to an opinion I did begrudge the decision to a certain extent.

My very kind roommate, trying to enjoy her dinner in peace despite my one-footed antics and bloody kleenexes, helpfully provided me with a litre of ouzo (anise schnapps) and a row of bandaids. After minor surgery with a pair of nail scissors I was mobile again, though the wound itself continued to bleed. Contemplating my shoe collection I settled on a pair of brown skimmers, old and worn, beautifully complementing the yellow sock I was sacrificing to the gods of foot injuries in case of further bleeding.

Which left me at work the next day with a red skirt, one yellow sock, and a limp. Fashion statement of the year, that is. Another day, another scar.