Tripping

Sometimes I’m a bit clutsy. Hard to believe, I know, I mean with all that grace going on in me. Not. I carry more than humanly possible to keep from going up and down the steps. Not sure why because heaven knows I could use the exercise. I don’t remember anymore what I had in my hands, but before I got to the top of the steps, I tripped.

Everything I carried, flung across the hardwood floor at the top landing while my body morphed into the steps. I teetered between laughing and crying. The pain in my leg, arms and fingers throbbed—not just a teeny throb, but a broken-bone-kind-of-throb. I couldn’t look at the disfigurement, so I put my head on the steps and bawled like a baby. I thought I sounded rather pitiful, but the noise didn’t send hubby running.

I heard him through my wailing, “Did you fall?”

“Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.” A whiney-cry all in one.

It felt like hours before hubby mosey’d on over, picking up all the goods that were sprawled on the floor. He then says, “Do you have shoes on?”

If I could’ve gotten up and thrown something at him, I would’ve. I’m claiming it was the shoes that caused me to trip, thank you very much.

“Yes, I have shoes on.” But how about, Honey, are you okay? Let me help you. Did you hurt yourself?

His early Marine training days clearly keeps him in the “tough it up soldier” mode. I’m pretty sure that man’s arm could be dangling from his shoulder, but not the right way mind you, and he’d refuse to go to the doctor and he’d tell me it’ll be fine. Now that’s tripping.