First, I fell in the shower.

Then I fell down the front stairs, tumbling rudely into cobblestone and dirt.
You know that moment when it really hurts? There is nothing else in the world but the impatient and demanding pain? Well I sat on the cobblestones for a few minutes, holding my wounded knee and fearing the worst for my ankle. My coffee ended up next to the tree and my bag, although still intact, rested a few feet away from me.

I wanted to cry. It hurt a lot, but I’m a big girl now so I just rocked back and forth for a few minutes, hoping I would be able to walk on the twisted ankle (ever notice how you always fear walking on bad ankles?). After a few moments I took stock of the situation in earnest.
My jeans were filthy - dark, wet dirt ground into the icy blue fabric. Fuck. I have to run in and change. My bag, dirty also, seemed to be without tears. But my ankle was throbbing and needed attention. It has a nice scrap on the top of the ankle, just above my shoe. It looks (and feels) like it caught the stairs on the way down, pulling down my clean socks to wound me. Fucking hurts to!

So I hobbled in, cursing 2 falls in one day, pissed off because I had to change clothes, but glad that my iced coffee was still in its container.

Now I feel a bruise blossoming on my thigh and both of my palms feel abused and slightly sensitive. I guess it could have been worse, I could have hit my head. Although, I don’t think that would have hurt as much.