Yesterday, I fell on my face.
For real. This isn’t some lavish metaphor.
I walked Jack, helping him navigate his usual sense that the other dogs were out to kill me or destroy the world, when a rogue Boxer came out of nowhere behind us.
The rest of the memory speeds up from here. Jack turned in a panic. I kept moving forward while the leash wrapped around my leg, and well, I fell onto my face.
Typing this through an impressive black eye and wondering exactly how much Advil is too much Advil, a few things become apparent about yesterday’s smackdown.
My body is Jenga. It looks pretty solid and assembled, but one slip, one moment of canine confusion, and I am an Airpods-flying jumbled mess of a body. And wow, those crumbling bones are traumatic when they thud to Earth.
Another thing, some people are kind. Nowhere near all people (the woman with the Boxer was long gone), but some shine. The man who kept Jack calm while gathering my headphones and helping me stand was one such star.
And finally, embarrassment is a silly luxury we entertain when we are not careening toward the concrete. I’m a bit of a klutz. I’ve fallen multiple times, and not once have I ever been concerned about what people thought.
When I fall, I’m solely in my lane and my life. This time, I held tight to Jack’s leash and hoped my cheekbone could handle one more beating without a visit to the emergency room.
It’s all me, utterly unaware of any external judgments.
Well, look at that — a metaphor. Maybe I should fall more often.
Probably not a good idea. At some point, these cheekbones are going to declare enough is enough.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Fall asleep.