I had a very adventuresome weekend. From being involved in a play written, produced, and performed in only 24 hours to heading to the river to a school dance, I was busy.
But I'm not going to talk about that.
I am going to talk about my incredible talent for falling flat on my face. Literally. (Like, while searching for a vocation, as I am, I should be seriously considering specific careers for accident-prone people.)
You see, this weekend, while heading back from the river on a particularly non-treacherous stretch of sidewalk, a combination of misdirected momentum and sheer Mariah-ness resulted in me splayed out on the concrete picking up my glasses and having a flashback to the 8th grade.
Picture this- It is the first week of middle school. New building, new friends. I am an awkward but not shy girl in the hideous required gym uniform. Ready for torture. Not particularly athletic, I am dreading having to run my first-ever two-mile, which I'd better get used to because it is going to happen every two weeks. We head outside and are told to begin. We'll be timed. I start off in the middle-back of the pack, jogging. We'll start out on the sidewalk next to the street that leads out of our school, then switch to a jogging path along the main road. As I jog, I notice the different shades of the blocks of sidewalk. They've been re-doing this walk, a few squares at a time, so some of it is brand new concrete. It is bright, bright white with two-centimeter ridges across. I am the kind of girl who, were there no time limit and no new classmates around, might stop to examine more closely.
Time limit or no time limit, the next thing I know, I am examining the cement very, very closely.
I puzzle over how I got there, not remembering the fall. The few kids behind me ask if I am okay. OMG someone saw that. The last thing I want is any attention from eighth graders at this time, I tell them to keep going. They do.
I pick myself up and examine the damage. This time, my glasses have remained on my face, and for that, my right lens has a large scrape across it in the pattern of the brand new sidewalk ridges. I also managed to scrape both sides of one hand (how does that even happen???), and I feel like something might be up with my forehead. I look down at my knees and noticed two big scrapes. Oh. I think, My knee is bleeding into my shoe.
Luckily, I hadn't gotten far. I take myself back to my gym teacher, less than a block away, who looks me over and states he hasn't seen such a horrible injury in all his time teaching, even during rugby. (And this teacher was pretty serious about rugby). Since I had reached safety, the pain hit me. I started crying and laughing at the same time.
And that, my friends, is how I spent the first week of middle school with a large band aid on my forehead. (It turns out I had scraped it up pretty badly).
Oh yeah, and my new crush in my Spanish class declared I was going to have a horrible scar there and nicknamed me Forescar. Attractive.
Fast forward to freshman year of college, and the story is sadly similar. My fall didn't cause nearly so much damage as the sidewalk was not brand new (thank you City of St. Paul) and I was wearing jeans, but I did manage to fall harder on my left knee than my right, scrape both sides of my right hand, and I even have a tiny scrape on the side of my glasses.
As I smile, laughing at myself, the bruise/scrape on my temple hurts.
Some things never change.