A couple of months ago, I was bringing up the big green garbage bins from the road to the back of the house. (Just because I'm rich and famous in my imagination doesn't mean I'm too good to bring up the bins.)
Just as I parked one, it somehow flipped toward me and tripped me so that I fell down on the open lid and was catapulted into the bin, slightly.
I don't remember the last time I fell down. It might have been 1968.
So I was quite shocked to find myself in a bin on my knees in a location where everyone at a four-way stop could see me.
I got up, immediately looked around to see who might have seen and might possibly blog about it and embarrass me, then got up, came inside and laughed it off. Also, washed it off.
Today, the same thing happened again, only this time, the garbage bin meant BIDNESS.
I fell again, this time scraping open my knee in two places, spraining my wrist and twisting my neck. I don't know how this part happened, but the right side of my head was plastered against the inside of the bin.
I mean, really, the bin was just way too up close in my personal space. Or maybe it was trying to tell me that I was too much into its personal space. We had a falling out, in any case. Or falling in.
This time, I just sat there saying, "Ouch." "Ouch." "Ouch." You get the idea.
I thought about calling for the babies' mom, but I knew she couldn't hear me and probably shouldn't leave two six month olds alone in the house to come and lift me out of a garbage bin.
Then I crawled out and never looked at the intersection because true pain doesn't care who sees.
So here I am tonight, husband in Albuquerque, two babies who do not care that I am old and achy, just care that I keep that food coming in.
Moral of the story? CLOSE the lid on the bins when I bring them up. Or leave it until Jorge comes home. I'm liking option two.
What's the last clumsy thing you've done?