“If I fell in love with you,
would you promise to be true.”
The Beatles-1964

You can fall in love. You can fall to temptation. You can fall to a con man. Or you can just fall on your butt. Over the last few weeks, I have been doing a lot of the latter.

I am clumsy. I don’t deny it. Barb learned long ago to warn me when I am headed to a stair step, or a ramp, or just a bump in the road. I can find cracks in the street to trip over while walking the dog, or I can trip over the dog. I have been known to do both, simultaneously. But I usually manage to stay on my feet. Lately, I have been without even that level of dignity. I have found myself flat on the ground three times in the last two weeks.

First came an unwitnessed but never-the-less embarrassing stumble I took in our closet. It’s a nice sized closet, a walk-in with plenty of hanging space for both Barb and me, and a nice island in the center. I opposed that island when we built the house, now I love it. I guess it grew on me. Anyway, I was standing between the island and a set of shelves, putting on a pair of black tennis shorts. Of course, being the multi-tasker I cannot escape being, I was also checking the weather on my phone which was resting on that damn island.

Next thing I knew, my left foot got caught in the waistband of my tennis togs, and I was falling. Standing-up to laying-out in less than a second, my head just missing the countertop. My butt took a small bounce, and I ended up with a deep and painful bruise “down there.” Strike one.

Ever try to outrun a bicycle–when it is being ridden by your 5-year-old granddaughter who has just learned to ride without training wheels? I don’t recommend it. Admittedly we were on a narrow sidewalk, but I should have been able to maintain a straight enough course.  Instead, I tripped over a few blades of grass as she zoomed by. Once again I found myself in face plant position. No damage other than a dirt sandwich, though. Strike two.

Last night at tennis I finished off my trifecta. The shot was a lob over my head. I yelled out “it’s mine” and began to backpedal furiously. And furiously I fell. It was identical to the play on which my tennis partner broke his arm last year, but I got lucky. Just a split lip from my racket hitting my face, a bruised elbow and a bit of a headache that reverberates with each keystroke this morning. I bounced up and after a short break managed to finish the set. Strike three.

All in all, I guess I am pretty lucky. Three falls, zero stitches, zero broken bones, just one bruised pride. But you can bet that if Barb ever hears “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” she will come a-runnin’. And she won’t be surprised.
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photo credit: mirsasha Rafa Nadal via photopin (license)
photo credit: hans905 Draai van de Kaai 2016-059 via photopin (license)