I fell down my stairs on my birthday. Let me back up and first say, I am not a “clumsy” person. I don’t fall down, or drop things, or run into walls, or whatever it is people do in infomercials when they are trying to open a tight jar lid and they accidentally throw it through their kitchen window. I am pretty steady on my feet, my wide, long, feet. (Unless I am on ice skates, but we shan’t talk about that today.) I have never in my life fallen down stairs or steps (unless for comedic effect or because I had skates on my feet and wanted to “try it”). Then, on the morning of my 38th birthday I fell. And it hurt like hell.

Our house is one of these mid-century split levels that have been booming in the renovation market lately. It’s been renovated, but the foundation of the house hasn’t changed. So we have two stair cases. One goes down from the main level to the family room and guest area, and one goes up to the bedrooms in the house. I tell you this so you know that I only fell down six steps. Six. That’s it. But that was more than enough steps to wreck havoc on my body. Christ Missy, what happened?

I have no idea. I keep replaying it over and over in my head, both because I am in awe that it happened, and because I don’t know what happened. I had just come inside from riding my bike to drop Jackson off at school. When I walked inside I told Sir Duke Barkington that I would take him for a walk. Then I remembered that I left his lead upstairs by my bed, because I had taken it off when he was up there the night before. Then when it wasn’t on my bedside table I remembered that I had taken it back downstairs the day before. So I headed downstairs.

I wasn’t in a hurry. I wasn’t mad or frustrated, it was my birthday! I had just come home from a bike ride. I was feeling nice. I had on my “good” shoes, which are my trusty Salomon XR Mission’s (that I recommend to anyone who suffers from plantar fasciitis). Jesus. I feel old just typing that. Anyhoo, I got to the top of the step and kind of just, fell. I fell directly on my left side, first my butt hit, then my back, then I half-heartedly reached for the handrail. Why didn’t I reach again? Why did I only sort of stick my hand out? Maybe I thought I wasn’t really going to slide all the way down the stairs, but I did. Bump. Bump, Bump. At least three times, hardwood stairs to butt, hardwood to back. Ouch.

I sat, in shock, for a minute then decided I was done for the day. Like my immediate reaction was, That’s it, Missy. Today sucks, this is how it will be. But then I remembered it was my birthday and I was like, No Missy, we can’t take this lying down. Even though I really wanted to lay down. So I got up and took the damn dog on his walk. Then I got home and worked and wrote some things. Made some calls, fielded way more birthday wishes than I deserve, and even rode my bike back to school to get Jackson that afternoon. Then, about 4:00 pm, after I had done all I needed to absolutely do that day I sat down and the pain came. And the swelling. And the reminder that I fell down my stairs that day. And that I am another year older. And that old people fall sometimes. Then I laughed at myself like I normally do, and enjoyed my evening with my boys.

The thing is, when I really think about it, my 38th year can only go up from here. It can only go up from the bottom of my stairs. So I think I have a lot to look forward to. 🙂

Stay safe out there, y’all. Use handrails.

M.