While I’m not exactly a Britney Spears fan, I have to admit that her song, Oops I did it again, has been going through my head for the past 24 hours. That must be because, well, oops, I did it again!
On a Sunday night last month, at around 10 p.m., I was walking our dog Shadow on her last relief outing of the night. She must have seen or sensed some critter and began to pull hard at the leash. Trying to keep control of her, I tripped on the edge of an uneven stab of the sidewalk that was sticking up and I slammed down onto the concrete, falling hard on my left side, severely bruising my ribs, and scraping vast amounts of skin off of my hands, fingers, and left knee.
By the end of last week, though, my poor body had finally healed and I had gotten to the point where I could sneeze without intense pain.
Then, the night before last, at around 10 p.m., I was once again walking Shadow on her last relief outing of the night. We had walked around the block and were in front of the house next door, close to the end of our outing. Shadow tends to speed up and pull at the leash as we approach our house, perhaps eager to get a treat and get into her crate for the night.
Save me Jesus!
Unfortunately, I again tripped on yet another of the far too many uneven and/or crumbling slabs of sidewalk in our neighborhood. In the fraction of a second between the time that I lost my footing and when I came crashing down onto the sidewalk, I thought, “Jesus, not again.”
Strangely, Jesus didn’t save me.
The good news is that I didn’t reinjure my recently healed ribcage on this mishap. That’s because my face, which was the part of my body to first make contact with the sidewalk, played interference.
I again scraped vast amounts of skin off my knees, hands, and fingers. And this time I also scraped vast amounts of skin off of my forehead, face, chin, and the bridge of my nose. I also bent the wire rim frames of my glasses and scratched up the lenses.
Dripping blood from my face, fingers, elbows, and knees, I walked into our house. My wife, who had been peacefully watching TV, jumped to my aid, escorted me to the kitchen sink, grabbed some antiseptic soap, and demanded that I wash up before I dripped any more blood onto the floor.
As I was washing off as much of the blood from my face as I could at the kitchen sink, my wife mentioned that she, too, occasionally walks the dog at night, as do many of our dog-owning neighbors. And yet, she reminded me, only I have fallen and ended up battered and bruised...twice. “Stop blaming the uneven sidewalks or the dog,” she admonished. “You’re just a klutz.”
With both my body and my pride wounded, I limped to the bathroom, took a nice, long, hot shower, cleaned out my cuts and scrapes as best I could, bandaged up my wounds, and crawled into bed, hoping that I’d wake up in the morning to find that it was all a bad dream.
The pain I felt as I got out of bed yesterday morning, coupled with the reflection of my mangled face in the bathroom mirror, reminded me that it was not a bad dream. It was just bad. I looked like the victim of a mugging or a severe beat down and I’m pretty much sore all over.
All things considered, though, it could have been worse. I suffered no broken bones, no concussion from my head bouncing off of and skimming along the sidewalk, and no apparent permanent damage.
Oops I did it again. Out, damn song! Out, I say!