I seem to take about one spectacular fall a year. 2007 was the best, I stepped on a very large rock in a parking lot, skinned both knees and one hand, and wrenched my ankle spectacularly. Last year was in the same damn spot on the walkway, which probably means that we really need to take out those damn boxwoods which have been eating the walkway and pushing the unwary off and into the grass. Or possibly that I'm a klutz.
By now I've gotten it down to a science. First I fall down. Then I kneel there for a minute or two going "Oww. Oww. Okay. Oww. Okay. I'm okay. Nothing's broken. Goddamn that hurts. I'm okay."
(These statements bear no resemblance to reality whatsoever, it should be said--I would be reassuring myself that I was okay and nothing was broken if I was impaled on a wrought-iron fence and there were bones sticking out and organs flapping in the breeze. I'm fine. Totally fine. Can you hand me my pancreas? Ah. Yes. I see. In traffic, you say? Dear me. A Volvo? Well, it happens. Good thing I'm okay.)
Then I get up, and do the staggering dance of one who is not sure they are not going to fall down screaming. When it appears that no, nothing IS broken, I swear a little more, reassure myself that I am indeed okay, and assess the cosmetic damage, which in this case was my left palm and left knee.
Now, I skinned my knee approximately once an hour as a child, and it healed up beautifully every time. There was some scab picking and maternal scolding for said scab picking and I was ultimately left with a pristine knee surface.
Now that I am nearly thirty-three, I will be shaving around the scar left by this adventure for the next few YEARS. Hands heal a lot quicker, thankfully, but I'm not gonna be using a shovel today, anyway.
Oh well. Guess I'll get some real work done instead...