A friend and I headed for dinner tonight at Lucille’s, a local restaurant celebrating Crabfest, with lots of crab recipes on the menu. It was so popular we had to park across the street in a church parking lot. We made our way across the street and around the stone wall that delineates the patio, squeezed between a car and those yellow posts that signify “don’t come any closer.” Almost to the front door, when I caught my foot on a bit of macadam around one of those yellow posts and went down on my knees—hard!
So many kind people rushed to help me, but I was okay, though my knees stung. Mostly I was chagrined. I was just beginning to get my self-confidence back after the swollen foot episode and here I was on the ground. Thankful that I didn’t rip the favorite pants I was wearing. With the kind help of a small group, I made it up. Assured them I was all right and we all proceeded into the restaurant.
Once seated, I realized that my knee and elbow were bleeding. The waiter brought me a wet (okay barely damp) napkin and my dinner companion gave me Band-Aids. I proceeded to enjoy a lovely crab salad supper. But on the way home I discovered another injury—a broken fingernail. Almost as serious as the skinned knee and elbow.
At home I put the clothes with blood on them in cold water to soak and treated myself to another glass of wine. Best remedy I know.
It wasn’t the first time I’ve fallen, either in public or at home. In fact, my con Colin said once, “It’s not that your balance isn’t good or that you’re clumsy—you just don’t look where you’re going.” Maybe, but who looks down all the time? Once I tripped over a curb at Central Market—the man who had distracted me with talk about my VW ignored it and went right on into the store, but another kind gentleman came up behind me and asked if I was okay.
“Yes, sir. I’ve fallen so much I’m pretty used to it, and I know how to do it.”
But I don’t usually skin my knee. And tonight the elbow smarts a bit. But my pride is pretty much intact.