I didn’t fall off the ladder while painting yesterday. But I DID fall down while walking the dog.
I went down like a drunken cowgirl. And I stayed there. Because I was in agony. Pickles, off the lead because we were in a nature reserve, walked ahead of me and stopped when she saw that I wasn’t close behind her. She stood, frozen, and stared at me. I’m sure she was asking herself, “why is the woman who feeds me laying in the middle of the pathway? She doesn’t usually lay down during walkies.”
And you know how — when you fall down — you hope that nobody sees you? Well, I was hoping that somebody would see me so that they could help me get up off the wet pavement. But no. So there I lay, clutching my knee and saying things that I can’t write here because Margie, my friend’s mom, reads my blog. I don’t want to disappoint or upset her.
I finished the walk on trembling legs and for the rest of the evening I rolled up my pant-leg no less than four times to show AP the progress of the bruising. He was appropriately sympathetic.
I am up and walking today, albeit slowly. And the kitchen is painted…finally.