After dropping my daughter off for a doctor’s appointment, I decided to take a quick walk around the neighborhood. Despite the cold, I had been sitting most of the day and couldn’t stand the thought of parking myself in the waiting room for a half hour or more.
I have a difficult time walking without a direction or “plan” so I mapped out a nice square in my head that would bring me back to where I needed to be.
It was actually an enjoyable walk. An experienced cold-weather walker, I know that the first few minutes are a little chilly, but once my body warms up, it isn’t so bad. My gait was tentative at first, growing more and more confident as I covered more ground. As I walked past the Catholic church, I gazed up at the building, admiring the bell towers, paying less attention to my walk and more to my surroundings.
That’s when I went down. Not a bannana-slip – feet out from under, onto the rump. But a “whoa, is this happening?!?” slippery slide, rolling the incident in my head as it happens. I felt silk beneath my feet and a calmness that generally escapes me in any moment where I think I may fall, the potential to break something imminent. My feet slid about, and it registered that I was on my way to the ground. I put a hand out and descended about as gracefully as a chubby momma my age can go do.
My brain quickly registered that I was not broken, but my glasses (which are quite pricey, you know) were hanging precariously from my face. I placed them back on my nose with my mittened hand, surveyed the large rink-like patch of ice I was seated on, and brought myself to my feet. Dust off the pants… brush the gloves, and I was off again. Knocked the cocky right off of me. How dare I walk down a snow-caked sidewalk and take my eyes off the path in front of me? Silly lady.