It’s summertime, doors and windows are wide open to the fresh air and lilting melody of life being lived. Sweet sounds like birdsong and church bells and the whirring stutter of lawn sprinklers compete with — and are drowned out by — the piercing screech of sirens, screaming motorcycles, and pounding bass. While irritating, those sounds aren’t on my list of aggravating noises.
My list has one lone entry every year. And that noise is: my head hitting pavement — THONK! I wish I knew how many times I’ve heard it. A thousand, maybe, but probably closer to five hundred. Over the course of my lifetime, my head’s banged off sidewalks and walls, stairs, steering wheels, handlebars, countertops, floors, doors and door jambs, trapezes, diving boards, tunnels, the list is long and quite diverse.
Regardless of what my head hits, though, it makes the same dull, echo-y sound every time: THONK! The volume changes, depending on the velocity of my fall, but the sound never does. And my heart sinks into my shoes, wherever they wind up, each time. Because that’s the sound of a forced recuperation, boys and girls. The only variable is how long the recuperation will take. Who, may I ask, wants to spend a summer indoors, limping around, clutching at chairs and walls for support? I don’t, but I rarely have a choice.
This latest incident didn’t require medical attention — yippee and phew — so I expect a rapid recovery. Days, if that. All because I tripped over a camouflaged platform thing the city installed at some intersections. Not all, mind you, just some. Why? Because they’re idiots. As a result, I flew head first onto the sidewalk, with the dog’s retractable leash and my elbow pinned beneath me. The damage? A couple broken ribs, a painfully swollen elbow with a purply, eggplant-colored bruise, and a raw knee pitted with concrete shards.
The dog and I actually thought we’d walked it off until I woke up this morning. And yipes! I was stiff and sore and puffy, with an arm operating at 40% capacity, maybe 45%, but even so, I’m functioning. Arms mostly just hang out beside you, anyway. Legs, those are the crucial parts. And mine are fine; bloody, unsightly, but perfectly fine.
The moral of the story? Well, there isn’t one, I just like to whine. Thanks for listening.