Tuesday, July 4, 2017
"I was never that cool
But I won't be taken for a fool
If they wanna talk trash they can talk, talk, talk
But they better come correct
And if you ever need me, call me
I'll come running straight to you"
- Sydney (I'll Come Running) by Brett Dennen
I imagined adulthood as including less scraped knees and bruises.
I fell while running yesterday. My toe caught on a fraction of uneven sidewalk higher than the rest and I went flying, landing on my knees and palms on the concrete. I stood slowly, ignoring the inquiring looks of a taxi driver across the street. I rubbed my knees, scraped up even beneath long running pants. This has happened so many times before: always a shock, a jolt, followed by a grim shake of the head.
I've gone sprawling while running or simply walking many times, always while tripping on something small and otherwise innocuous. Plus, the amount of times I've almost tripped - a slight stumble, usually accompanied with an "Are you okay?" from the friend I'm walking with - is just embarrassing. On top of that, I seem inordinately prone to running a hip or thigh into a countertop or table, a shoulder into a doorframe, to trip while walking up stairs or to take a final step when the stairs have ended, landing with a hard stumble on one foot.
Last night while getting undressed, I gingerly touched the bruises on my knees, and noticed a large red patch on one hip. Road rash. There's just no easy way to fall flat on concrete.
I don't know that there's any moral to my clumsiness. It amuses me somewhat that I can do things of fine detail without problem - cake decorating, jewelry making, embroidery - yet just walking around seems unusually dangerous. Maybe it's that my daydreaming, planning, wondering thoughts are racing elsewhere while my body is simply moving fast to keep up. If that imagined reason is at all true ... then maybe I'm not complaining. Scraped knees and all.