I usually fall UP the stairs. I know. That makes no sense. I probably should have said that I usually TRIP up the stairs, but my mother always told me that generally people fall DOWN the stairs, indicating to me that because I tripped UP the stairs and never fell DOWN the stairs, I must be that one in a kabillion (my version of an infinite number, making my statistic impossible to prove) who falls UP the stairs.
Every day, on my way home from school, I had to climb three little stairs to get from the back step to the kitchen. I couldn't avoid those stairs, because my bedroom and – well – the entire rest of the house, excluding the basement – was also UP those three stairs. But every day I tripped up them. Every day. Without fail. And I would hear my mother laughing, "I know who's home."
Taunting me. Relentlessly taunting me.
It got to the point where I would stand at the bottom of those three stairs and imagine myself leaping up all three of them at once, so as to avoid climbing them. And then, CRASH! That didn't work.
I concentrated on lifting one foot over the other, but nothing worked. I was convinced that some invisible poltergeist was grabbing my pant legs just as I lifted my foot – every time. I still have scars all the way up and down both of my legs from my numerous trips up the stairs.
And then yesterday, for possibly the fourth time in my life, I fell down the stairs. I remember clearly all three other times I fell down the stairs. Once, when I was in high school, I had convinced a dear friend of mine that I had found a short cut in D building to get to F building. The short cut turned out to be me sliding down the stairs butt first. The second time I fell down the stairs I was living in an apartment with two of my children. Once again, I slid down an entire floor of stairs and badly bruised my back.
The third time was when I was living in a different apartment. The manager had installed indoor plastic lining on the outdoor steps. One cold blustery day as I attempted to get to work, I noticed that the plastic corners of each step had curled upwards and that every step had become a ramp caked with ice. The railing too was caked with ice. I could have stayed home, but I had to get to work. (I'm very conscientious.)
As I grabbed onto the railing and carefully placed my foot on the step beneath me, my foot slid out from under me and I skated down the stairs one step at a time until I crash landed on the bottom step.
The fourth time occurred last night when I was at my daughter's apartment. I was there to watch her fiance's daughter, Myraiah, and was fortunate to also have for company two of my grandchildren (Travis and Wesley) and two of my great grandchildren (Ayla and Billy). As I descended the carpeted stairs, my pant leg slid between my sock and the stairs, and down I went, toe first.
See the results?
I sat down on the steps and held onto my foot. And then, to my horror, I felt my toenail in my sock. I was afraid to remove my sock. Travis and Wesley ran around the apartment in search of bandages. I bravely removed my sock, only to discover that the nail polish itself, in one huge clump, had fallen into my sock. Myraiah wanted to keep it, but I told her we had to let it go. It was too painful a reminder of the horror I had just experienced.
To add insult to injury, Myraiah patted my stomach last night and nodded in a conspiratorial manner as if we both knew some BIG secret. As compassionately as she could possibly speak, she said, "You're going to have a baby, aren't you?"
This morning, her father, John, offered me a donut!!!!! A donut!!! Why? To feed my unborn baby (named Fat)!
I swear, as God as my witness, as soon as I can stand on my foot, I will destroy Fat!
