Permit For Falling

Peanuts fallen can't get up

I had fallen. I could not get up. I was outside upon a sidewalk amidst an extreme polar vortex. I did not have the luxury of grabbing a shower curtain to slow my fall, not like that scary hag of a bad actress who falls in a bathtub and says, “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up”™. At last, here is my comeuppance for mocking the elderly who depend on Life Alert®, America’s leading senior medical alert system. For reasons beyond my limited knowledge, the impact of the fall made me incapable of speech.

Here’s my story it’s sad, but true, it’s about a girl that I once knew. Distracted by her, I did not see a patch of ice under my leading foot. Wipe out! Traditionally, it’s called black ice. Permit me a moment of self-indignant righteousness. I no longer support and will not use the term black ice. There is an implied racial tone to it. In fact, listen to how your local “meteorologist” says it. There is an undertone of hate, a hard emphasis on black. It is very similar to how current president of the United States, Trump, says DACA. Now, I call it the politically correct term, invisible ice, or obscured ice. This is me becoming self aware: if I had seen this happen to someone else, I’d be laughing hysterically, but since it happened to me, I was experiencing what you would call a humorless tragic moment. The grass is funnier on the other side.

Here I was, flat on my back, forced to look skyward, thanks to three scarves. It was gray, rapidly turning dark. I could barely move my arms. The cold, cold ground beneath me between four and a half layers of clothing and the shooting pain coursing through my body gave me the strange comfort that death will be kind.

I was making peace that my kindred soul was an overturned turtle after being whacked in the back with a piñata stick. My survival instinct slapped me in the face and overtook the negative thoughts of shortened mortality. My smart phone, which I keep in my back pocket will help me. I wanted to say, “Siri, call 911.” Nothing. And then, it occurred to me, this was not snow melting on my ass. It was too cold. It was blood from the shattered screen piercing my butt. According to a still-laughing bystander, I died just before an ambulance arrived. The last thing I remember was ascending on a slow, steady, and loud Stair Lift®. Don’t count on your life passing before your eyes. I’m not sure if this is a new thing or not, seeing that I’ve never died before, but as you die, you hear that damn Sugar Ray® tune over and over again.

MORAL: Don’t ever keep your phone in your back pocket. Most importantly because it will seriously mess up your spine every time you sit down. That extra bulk combined with your obese mass equals a visit to the chiropractor.


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