I’m getting old, people. And clumsy. Here’s what happened earlier this week.
After work on Tuesday I checked in with all of my kiddos, made a carpool run to dance, then prepped for a jog. I used the bathroom four times, dug up some sunglasses and set off into the rush hour traffic with a vague 6-mile route in mind.
Almost to the half-way point and a much-needed port-a-pot, I switched from the sidewalk to the road for smoother and more asphalt-ey ground. As an oncoming car approached, I drifted slightly to the left but remained on the road. Briefly. Within the next three seconds, I’d rolled my ankle off the edge, broken my fall with my right knee and hands, and began dragging my wounded body out of harm’s way. The car that I had sought to avoid drove right on by without so much as a mild slowdown. I couldn’t believe it!
Stunned, embarrassed and fairly certain I’d broken something, I sat up and assessed my situation. I was almost 3 miles from home, bleeding and hurting, and I didn’t have my phone. (I’ve already been reprimanded by the kids and my husband Doo about that last tidbit, so zip it). I stood up and began to walk, and thanks to the adrenaline and shock, discovered I could jog. Momma had to get home! And I made it in record time because I’m awesome.
My ankle is still swollen and my scabby knee looks like an 8-year old’s, but I learned a valuable lesson. My balance and judgement are not what they used to be. I’m switching to swimming,