I had a little mishap last night at 10:10. I retired from my computer with the intent of watching a little big-screen TV. Hick and The Pony had already turned in for the evening. Genius was not yet home from a birthday bash at his ex-girlfriend's house.
The first thing on my agenda was to return my baggie of melted knee-ice to the freezer compartment of the basement mini-fridge. You remember the knee ice, don't you? To chill the joint mice in my crunchy, bursitisy knee? I shuffled through the narrow walkway between the gun case that harbors the cheap guns that Hick is OK with burglars taking in hopes that they won't look for the good stuff, and the mini-fridge under the stairs. Stacked beside the gun case, across from the mini-fridge, are approximately thirteen empty cardboard soda cases. That's because The Pony, our soda stocker, has been remiss in his handling of cardboard trash since last Christmas. You'd think that once we took the Christmas tree down in July, he would have gotten on the stick and stuck those boxes in a giant trash bag and hauled them to the bard field for burning. Because that's how we do it here in the hinterlands. We burn our cardboard. I figure it's no worse for the environment than adding it to our dumpster and requiring Waste Management to spend extra gas money and landfill space on it.
I had just passed the mini-fridge, and was about to reach for the door when it happened. My red-Croc-encased foot hit a wrinkle in the throw rug that The Pony must have placed there for his own knee comfort during soda-stocking. The wrinkle snagged on a cardboard corner and brought my foot to an abrupt halt. Which was bad news for my body, which continued forward. I did not have time for my life to flash before my eyes. Only the thought: I can't fall; I'll get hurt.
But fall I did. Face first. Onto the tile-covered concrete basement floor. A blue vinyl beanbag sometimes used by The Pony or Genius to play X-Box games was to my left. I missed it completely. I landed on my knees and elbows. My forearms were fortunate to land on the braided toenail rug. That's a whole other story, the toenail rug. I think I posted it here early on.
Like a tree falling in an abandoned forest, I was bereft of people to hear my sound. Hick, with his breather strapped on his muzzle upstairs at the other end of the house, would never know that I was beached on the basement floor. The Pony, above and at the back of the house, covers his head when he hits the sack. Something about hearing and seeing strange things afoot after dark. I did not bother to shout, "I've fallen, and I can't get up!" It would only waste my strength.
A quick mental inventory revealed that all systems were working. But I had plummeted right out of my Crocs. Yes. I'm one of those people who wear Crocs with socks. But not out in public. Therein lay the dilemma. I could not gain purchase on the slick tile floor with my socks. In addition, the toenail rug had scooted into a wrinkly series of mountains and valleys when I pitched forward and slid like a go-ahead run over home plate in the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series. So when I tried to stand, the rug under my hands moved forward, and my sock feet slid backwards. Not at all conducive to rising, though a good abs workout if repeated.
I deduced that the only way to regain my footing was to crawl across the Toenail Rug Mountain Range to the base of Sofa Peak. In that location, my sock feet would find purchase in the foothills, and my hands could provide leverage from the summit of Sofa Peak. Once righted, I hobbled to the recliner to recuperate.
I am pleased to report that my bones are not as brittle as those of The Pony, who has broken both elbows in two separate falls at school. One on a tile hallway floor, and the other on concrete steps. Reports of my osteoporosis have been greatly exaggerated. The accident could have had far worse results. I did not knock myself unconscious. Nor did I knock out my teeth, break my nose, shatter a wrist, or dislocate a shoulder. Perhaps my thick padding saved me from anything more than painful contusions to both patellae. A surveillance video might have depicted a toppling Stay Puft Marshmallow woman. Thank goodness Hick has not gone the hidden camera route.
When he returned from a morning visit to Grandma's house, and an afternoon bowling league, The Pony gathered up all the cardboard. He felt great sadness over his unintentional role in the incident, though I assured him his helpful habits far outweigh any harm that never came from my tumble. Genius also appeared to exhibit sympathy when informed of the felling of his maternal unit. Hick offered hugs, while stating matter-of-factly that indeed, he would never hear me if such a thing were to happen again. My mom was beside herself worrying over what might have happened. When she picked up The Pony this morning, she insisted on seeing the damage. Only then did she stop offering to take me to the hospital to be checked out.
I am moving slowly on my knotty knees, a bit like a potato with toothpick legs. The bag of knee-ice water was uninjured, even though it was crushed under my left forearm in the accident. It spent the night in the mini-fridge freezer and lives to soothe again.