How I Lost My Battle Against Gravity And The Bathtub

So, last Wednesday, I slipped and fell in my tub.

Now, I know what you're thinking, readers. That sounds HILARIOUS! Surely, this post will be filled with a humorous story, illustrated with funny cartoons...and it will most certainly finish with a zinger of a punchline! This is gonna be great!

But in truth, friends and neighbors, it's hard for me to joke about the incident just yet. Mainly because laughing (as well as sneezing, yawning, farting, stretching, and lifting) hurts like hell.

Here's how it went down. If you'll recall, we live in an apartment that was decorated in the early 80s. We have the pleasure of enjoying fake wood paneling, cheap carpet, and a wallpaper-covered piece of plywood that serves as the back splash behind our oven. Needless to say, the tub is no exception to the rule. It used to be one of those with a textured bottom, to help keep its inhabitants from slipping. But since it's been used now for almost 25 years, that helpful texturing is now gone. 

In the past few years, we've spent a fair amount of dough trying to remedy this problem, mostly with bath mats. We've had them in all shapes, sizes, and textures. 

And recently, we'd found one that seemed to work. Sure, it would gradually slide a little to the right from time to time, but we always were able to pull it up, and restick it to the bottom of the tub for maximum anti-slippage. 

So after an hour-long torture session at the gym on Wednesday morning, I wasn't even thinking about the potential for a rib-crushing fall as I stepped into our middle-aged shower. In fact, I was more focused on my aching legs and abs---which is why, when the bath mat came out from underneath me like Tony Hawk's first skateboard, I was more shocked than anything else.

I vaguely remember thinking to myself, while staring at my red toenails as they soared over my head, that I was impressed my pedicure was going on 2 weeks old without chipping.

And then...impact.

If I'd just let gravity take its natural course, and landed on my really round rumpus, I probably would've bounced a couple of times and been fine. However, in an instinct older than time, I tried to catch myself by putting my arms out. It worked---I did manage to catch myself. But  my entire body weight came crashing down onto the lip of the tub, ribs-first, where my arm worked as the brake. I also bashed my head into the wall. I was left breathless and seeing stars.

I sat in the bottom of the tub for what felt like hours, the water beating down on me, trying to take a breath. But the impact had knocked the wind out of me, and the only thing I was able to squeeze out were a few rogue tears. 

My cat, Dizzy, however, had no problem filling his lungs. As soon as I started trying to gasp for breath, he instantly knew something was wrong and began yowling at the top of his voice. I thought for sure that Brian would have come running at this point, but he'd been vacuuming the living room when I'd headed toward the shower. Naturally, despite Dizzy's best efforts, Brian couldn't hear him over the roar of the vacuum. Finally, I took a huge breath, and my chest filled with fire and glass. I shouted for Brian--once, twice, and finally a third time. By the time he found me, the pain associated with the fall had started to set in, and my muscles began shivering in protest.

I came away from the accident with bruised ribs, achy muscles, and a very minor concussion. 

Sounds pretty bad, right?

That's because it was.

So much so that I threw myself a big ol' pity party this weekend. Party excitement included: closed blinds, stretchy pants, pain killers, multiple blankets, junk food, old movies, avoidance of phone calls and text messages, occasional mournful glances at my bruises in the mirror, and absolutely no eye-contact (even with my cats.)

I watched depressing movies, cried a lot, and generally felt sorry for myself, from morning till night. It was SO much fun. Aren't you glad I didn't invite you?

In conclusion, I'll be adding the following items to my 2013 wish list: anti-gravity boots, full body armor, and a football helmet.

Oh, and a new bath mat would be nice, too.

(Look at that! I managed a somewhat snappy punchline after all. Go me.)

Grace Is NOT My Middle Name, Part Two

When I was 2 years old, I toddled my way around the kitchen, using any surface to maintain stability, including the face of the oven. I suffered 2nd degree burns on my palms.


When I was 3 years old, I chased our dog through the living room on wobbly legs, tripped and fell into the coffee table. I had a gash on my head that required 3 tiny stitches.


When I was 4, I chased my cousin around his house, until he unintentionally slammed my pinky finger in the old-fashioned screen door. The doctor stitched the end of my finger back on with only 5 stitches.


By the time I was 5, my parents did the only thing they could think of to help me with my clumsiness. They enrolled me in dance classes.

Tap, ballet, jazz, tumbling, clogging---from the ages of 5 until high school, I twirled and tapped and flipped and shuffled. Dance taught me discipline and teamwork. It taught me to be an entertainer. It taught me how to be graceful.

It did NOT rid me of my clumsiness.


Case in point: I was a freshman in college. The dorm I lived in hosted a haunted house every year to raise money for a local women's shelter. East Hall had classrooms in the basement, and they made for the perfect creepy landscape for our endeavor. Eager to help, I volunteered for the decorating committee.


A sunny fall afternoon, I was given the task of hanging heavy black fabric over the windows so that the street lights wouldn't shine in, ruining the effects of each room. I'd been at it for well over 3 hours and was ready for a break when I finally got to the last room slated to be used for the haunted house. Unfortunately, the windows were impossible for me to reach without a ladder.


Except there was no ladder to be found.


Always the industrious one, I spotted an old-fashioned desk nearby that would allow me to climb up into the windowsill. I dragged it over, tossed my supplies up into the sill, climbed up and started my project.


There was just enough room on the windowsill for me to perch on my knees. I stapled the fabric to the top of the window, and draped it down over the sill, climbed down and took a look at my handiwork. Nope. It wasn't good enough. The fabric was gaping just enough along the sides to allow light in. So I climbed back up into the windowsill, knelt down on top of the fabric, and began taping the sides down to the glass.


At that moment, a friend walked into the classroom behind me and called my name.


In the instant that I turned to answer, I knew I'd made a grave mistake.


My knee slipped on the satiny fabric, right off of the 6 inch mouth of the windowsill. 

And the rest of my body followed.

The only thing that kept me from landing on my head (and probably breaking my neck) was the desk I'd used as a step stool. It slowed my momentum when my face connected with the corner.


I vaguely remember waking up with a sea of concerned-looking faces hovering over me. I also remember writing my parents' phone number on a sheet of paper and being alarmed that my hand was bloody. I remember being totally embarrassed when the paramedics arrived and wouldn't let me walk to the ambulance. I remember being even more embarrassed when I realized how hot the young paramedic was who was riding in the back of the ambulance with me.


I remember my heart stopping when my roommate wouldn't let me see my face in a mirror while we waited in the ER.


Injuries sustained:
mild concussion
contusions on my hip, back, and buttocks
gash in the bottom of my chin (from the desk) which required 8 stitches
3 bruised ribs


The worst of my injuries, though, is not one to discuss with the feint of heart. So if you have an aversion to weird stuff, you might just want to scroll to the bottom of this post. Seriously. You've been forewarned. 


My front tooth punctured through my bottom lip. And somehow following through that trajectory, managed to turn completely around in the socket. So when I smiled, my front tooth was essentially backwards.


To repair this damage, I had to have emergency oral surgery. Believe it or not, this only entailed the surgeon grasping my tooth with his fingers, turning it around, and shoving it back into the socket. Hard. He then wired my 4 front teeth together, sutured the inside of my bottom lip, then the outside of my bottom lip, and told me to come back to see him in a month to have the wire removed. 


Don't worry, there was plenty of lidocaine. (If you've ever taken a shot of lidocaine for dental work, imagine taking 6 of those, two in the roof of your mouth. Now weep for me and the pain I endured.)


Needless to say, the next 2 weeks of college are a colorful blur. Always a fan of bruises, I'm told I was more than willing to share them with any and all who asked. (Including my husband, who was at the time little more than a friend.) (Let me say that the one on my behind was a beautiful shade of indigo.)(I tell people that Brian fell in love with me the moment I showed him my ass.)


In the moment that I fell, my dance background never came into play. I can only imagine how much more damage would've been done if I'd tried that fancy pirouette mid-air. Sorry, Mom and Dad...your attempts to heal me of my clumsiness did not work. 


Remind me to tell you guys the story of how I lost my balance and fell into the bricks lining my parents driveway one day...